Dear Linda,
It is with a heavy heart and a lighter wallet that I write this letter to you from the comforting embrace of my Harley. I’ve spent many sleepless nights (parked outside your house for the Wi-Fi signal) reflecting on our last fight, and I’ve come to a conclusion that you deserve to hear.
Linda, it’s not me. It’s you. And also, it’s her—my motorcycle.
I didn’t want it to come to this, but your insistence on things like “spending quality time” and “not storing engine parts in the bathtub” left me with no choice. You see, while you’re wonderful in many ways, there are things my bike gives me that you just... don’t.
I’m not saying it was all bad. I’ll cherish the memories: you scolding me for revving the engine during your yoga Zoom class, or that time you made me sell my favorite helmet for “couples’ therapy.” Those were the good days.
But now, I must move forward (at 75 mph on the highway). Don’t think of this as a breakup. Think of it as an opportunity for you to find someone who loves candlelit dinners more than carburetors.
Take care of yourself, Linda. And remember, you’ll always have a seat on the back... well, as long as you don’t complain about the exhaust fumes.
Forever in the wind,
Alan
P.S. If you’re looking for closure, just listen for the sound of her engine. That’s the music of freedom.
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