I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come out and say it:
I just can’t do it anymore. I’m leaving you.
Now, baby, I’m not saying we haven’t had some good times over the past couple of centuries.
Remember that time you paid 50 million francs for all that land west of the Mississippi River and we drove down to Mardi Gras? You were so loaded! I think you spent all of Fat Tuesday topless. Dude, we filled that carriage full of beads!
There was a time when I could just listen to you for hours. You were so engaging, so eloquent, like your 1830 Great Debate over states’ rights. Sure, in hindsight, you said some crazy crap, but your intensity and passion were hard to match.
But I suppose we were a lot younger and more starry-eyed then.
You used to dream big, and I used to dream with you. You were so ambitious. You had goals. You did great things. That 13th Amendment, outlawing slavery, that was good stuff. Sure, you passed this basic human right reluctantly, begrudgingly. And, yes, James Spader may have had to cut some shady deals behind the scenes, but you got there. You did it.
I was so proud of you back then. You were really something.
I can’t remember the last time I thought that.
It’s sad when a good thing goes bad, and baby, what we have is so sad.
A relationship is supposed to be about compromise, give and take. Of all institutions, I would think Congress should know that.
But you don’t compromise. I give and give and give, and all you do is take. I go to work, bust my tail to give you what you want, but it’s never enough. “I need $100 billion for this,” you tell me. “Give me $64 billion for this,” you plead. You and that moocher friend of yours, you know the smooth talker from Chicago. You give me all kinds of sweet talk, “Oh, please baby. Just a trillion for health care. Come on, baby, it’d be so good. You know I’m good for it. It won’t really cost you a thing once we start seeing all of these medical outcome savings. Oh, please, baby. You know I love you.”
You sit on my couch all day smoking reefer and watching “Judge Judy” and “King of Queens” reruns. I get home from work and the place is a pig sty. I’m working three jobs to support you and you can’t even clean up the place?
And then you try to come up with all kinds of rules telling me how I’m going to live my life. You beat me up with all of your rules and regulations – in my house – and every two years you beg me to keep you. Who do you think I am, Tina Turner? Rihanna?
Well, Chris Brown, this is where I get off. It’s over. We’re through. Do you hear me?
I know it’s a bad time for a break-up, Valentine’s Day and all. But I’ve taken a long look at my life and I need a change. I’ve had enough of your lying and cheating to last me another 230 years. This “Great Experiment” is over as far as you and I are concerned, baby. I want your crap out of my house before I get home from work tonight. And take Mr. Chicago with you. Tell him I’ve heard enough Al Green love songs to fill a K-Tel collection.
There is a part of me that will always love you for what you were, even for what you still may be. But I cannot be with you for what you are. I refuse to let you hurt me anymore. I’m taking back my life!
The American Taxpayer
Contact Matt Kittle at email@example.com