won't you help me stop reading your email?
the time we spent together was magical, but now that you've dumped me to insert your penis elsewhere, won't you change your email password so the temptation to read pathetic missives from my vagina-replacements is mitigated?
I wish you all the luck in the world that the speed-, e-, and live-dating works out for you, but my insatiable curiosity and sado-masochistic streak, combined with my complete lack of discipline, make it all too desirable to pseudo-stalk you while at the same time congratulating myself that I'm not as lame as you. Talk about a binary universe!
I think of your shiny pate and your dubious political affiliations, and wonder why I ever thought we were right for each other. That being said, nothing spices up a dull work day like the hair-shirt I don every time I check your messages to see if 'that blonde bitch' has emailed you back. I see she hasn't; guess the weekend didn't go so well. Or maybe you've discovered the gift that keeps on giving; genital herpes.
Logging in as you this Holiday Season,
Your pissed-off ex who knows your password.
this is in or around West Hell