Illustration by Bob AulWhen we got together, you worked out every day. You said health was as important to you as intellect and spirituality. Now you're a fatso whose reading list includes everything from Sports Illustrated to Sports Illustrated. You couldn't name the president if I spotted you four letters—and you accuse me of being shallow because I tell you the truth when you ask me if your ass looks big in those pants. (Answer: not just your ass). I'm sorry, but knowing the story behind the story of Bon Jovi, drinking every night and sleeping late every morning—these things don't make a real life. Naps aren't meditation. Chocolate with Rice Krispies isn't two of the main food groups. TV isn't educational, not even the news. Your brain has shrunk as your body has blown up. Your soul? Remember when we used to call each other soulmates? You are my soulless mate. Or rather, you were. You'd never find this in a newspaper; that's why it's in the refrigerator. And by the time you read it, I'll be gone. Enjoy your pretend life.
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