Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Petfly that doesn't belong to me.
Dear Phil:
Man, I never wanted to do this to you; you've been with me through the hard times, the not-so-hard times (damned threshers!), the pestilence and plague and, oh, yeah, that whole naugahide incident (what hell is a nauga, by the way?). It seems, I dunno, cold, to dis you in an e-mail.
But, seeing as how you are only the figment of my roomate's twisted little brain (the only little thing on him, I'd say, but that'd just be cruel in a 'Dear Phil' letter!), I guess this'll just have to do. I mean, you're a paragon, a saint, an angel; if you weren't Jim's imaginary friend, I might just fall in love with you. The only problem is, you can't compete with a living, breathing Jim Ellison.
Come to think of it, what can?
I mean, maybe he has the morals of a presidential candidate. Maybe he's a sneaky, lying sonuvabitch. Maybe he's damn lucky I opened my mouth up to just speak to him again, never mind what else got done with it, but in the end, when the dust settles and he's gone around and posted "Blair is germ free except for Ellison cooties" posters all over the station ...
I love him to pieces. Love him stupid.
Love you, stupid.
Next time just ask. Really.
Oh, and about that donut-ring cushion on your seat there, at work. That's from all the guys. Told 'em that's why you've been such a bear lately. Hope the box of bran muffins helped. And H bought you the Preparation. The man is a poet, just waiting to happen.
Love, Blair.
End