A Break Up Letter Long Overdue

Dear Federal Courts,

I am leaving you. By the time you read this, I'll be with some traffic court in Missouri. I'm sorry to do this in a letter, but I can't take your pressure and high standards. I know this might come as a shock (or perhaps as prayers answered), especially because you're such a superficial self-absorbed prick. I have to be me; I need freedom and perhaps some hot court sex with a court that isn't a sussed-up potato sack. Although we were never actually a pair, you've been teasing me with your tight man shirts and low-cut jeans ever since I first saw you stroking the leg of that Journal Editor. I knew you were taken then, and the next year, but I thought we really could have something the year after that. Although I still think you are seriously hot and desirable, we're clearly not right for each other. You're a sexy little appellate number and I'm just B-grade cattle that you turn your nose up at. But don't lie. Sometimes, when you're riding home after a long hot day in those robes, you stop by McDonalds and you order me hot and covered with cheese. You barely breathe until you've consumed every greasy morsel of my Chinese newspaper-filled self. And then you throw the evidence away on the side of the road so no one will know. They'll just keep thinking you only dine on those grade-A steaks and truffles from Harvard. I'm tired of being your dirty little secret.

Do you remember when I was a 1L, so fresh and naive? I asked you if I could ever have a chance with you and you told me that you didn't care about my numbers, as long as I was a good researcher and writer. You didn't tell me that those skills were determined by my numbers. You cheap double-talking whore.

But you know what? I still want to be friends. I still adore the way you sneak around Title VII and interpret the Constitution so that bad man remains on death row despite all the new DNA evidence, because, you know, he got a fair trial the first time. And I'm not saying that we can't occasionally keep the fantasy alive, especially after a night of drinking around people I'll never see again. We had some good times, at least we did in my imagination.

I'm sure you'll move on to another clerk, and I'll keep telling myself that I love my Missouri-state traffic court. He may not have your sexy man chest and that Isaac Hayes-like voice, but at least he wants me for who I am. And because he can't get anything better. I'll miss you.


Always,

Lyco


P.S.- I faked every orgasm.