I’m not going to name you here. Since I have dated more than 50 women in my life, no one will ever be able to know which one this is addressed to. You of course know this is false, but for the sake of my image on this blog, please don’t tell anyone.
I hope this finds you well. I am writing you with regards to a certain box I kept with artifacts from our relationship. Many of us participate in such practices. Few hold onto such boxes for nearly 10 years after the relationship has ended. If I were a less sentimental man, I’d have probably ceremoniously burned your box some time after we broke up. Not out of anger–it would just be more enjoyable than tossing the box in the trash.
Until recently, your box resided in a larger box of keepsakes deep in the basement of my parents’ house. No longer. Late in the evening your box was taken by a wave of shit. A sewer blockage just below the house caused the neighborhood fecal matter to gurgle up from the drain and take the box by force.
I hope the demise of your box doesn’t seem unceremonious to you. After all, when Boromir is killed by the Orcs in The Two Towers his comrades lay his body in a small row boat and send him down the river and over the falls. Surely this scene would be just as powerful if, rather than a pristine, mountain stream, Boromir’s craft was carried away by a toilet flush in a FiberOne household. My parents did retrieve the box, but, as they probably felt burning would be unsafe, it went straight to the trash.
I’m not sure how to conclude this. All concluding remarks were made 10 years ago. You’re probably more surprised that I still had the box than you are to hear of its disposal. If you happen to be weird like me and still have my box, I will not be offended if this prompts you to conduct similar ceremony. I might suggest Papio Creek.