I’ve had it, Martin! Every night I come home from work to this- You sit on the couch writing your songs with your shoes kicked off and dirt trailing from the door to where you recite poetic verses of your own. You look filthy in your ill-matching outfit comprised of old and wrinkled clothes- you’re like a child who’s stubbornly waiting for his mother to do his laundry and re-wearing this wardrobe until she does. Lately I’ve been feeling less like your wife and more like your mother. I was a fool to try and tie you down, wasn’t I? After all, you model yourself after the great American Romantics, and I can’t remember any of them settling down like this. Well, I hate to break it to you but Walden Pond’s been nothing but a tourist trap for years now- Its blue waters and natural lighting may seem a dream in your eyes, but to me it’s nothing but a sign of your apparent foolishness. But that’s the worst part. I come home each night and I see you there, your face half covered in the shadow of your own guitar, and as much as I hate you, as much as I want to yell and scream and tell you how much of an idiot you are, I can’t bring myself to do it. There’s this sneaking suspicion that you’re not as dull as you appear, that you’re merely playing an extended trick on me. And so I’ll just keep writing down my thoughts until the day I walk in on you with some strange man, and have a reason to kick you out of my life that’s satisfactory enough to your fanclub of my friends.

Once again to nothing more that the inside of a trashcan,
-Chardonnay