The following fictional letter is for entertainment purposes only

Dear Valerie,

I know we’ve been married for 28 years. During this time, you have given an amazing daughter. Nothing brought me greater joy than seeing Sam get married last. I’m so grateful that I could walk my baby girl down the aisle, but as usual, your presence in my life ruins most things. You’re always cold and callous nature takes what should be happy occasions and destroys them.

I know for a fact that you only wanted to be the wife of a wealthy dentist, and that is why you married me. I should have listened to my parents when they said that you were a gold-digging slut. And that you’d probably be working some stripper pole in Vegas if it weren’t for the fact that I took you home from the bar that night when I was too drunk to realize that I was making a terrible mistake. You lied to me that night. You told me that you were on the pill. If it weren’t for my damn libido, we wouldn’t be in this position.

The one bright spot in our marriage has been the birth of our daughter, Samantha. She’s intelligent and beautiful; those are clearly traits that she did not get from you. I’m tired of playing the happy husband and always putting on a happy face when we go to cocktail parties. I know that you spend hundreds of dollars of my money to complain to your therapist about the fact that I won’t let you buy a new Ferrari every six months, that I’m still pissed at you for spending our money on essential oils, crappy coffee or whatever else you think will make you successful without actually having to work.

I’m tired of you spending my hard-earned money on designer handbags and cooking classes that you’ll never use. I don’t mind cooking meals, but what I’m saying is you saying going to cooking classes and then canoodling with some guy who is half your age. And I’m tired of you trying to deny your infidelities. I’m tired of you pretending to cry when I questioned you about the latest guy whose dick you rode. You’re not fooling anyone. You make your voice squeak and scratch the side of your cheeks so that your face looks red, and hopefully, it will hurt enough to make you shed a tear or two.

Remember how I said that I accidentally smashed your phone in the car door? And then I had to replace it? Well, I didn’t. I still have your phone.

When you came home last Thursday night, you smelled like beer, marijuana, and sex. You told me you were working all night, but I’m not that stupid. I checked your phone. I managed to trick your latest boy toy into sending me some kinky pictures. At first, I was just going to blackmail the idiot. I know that you’ve been buying him things in exchange for sex. I also know that you’ve never made a dime in your life, and I want the money back.

I had a few shots of Jack Daniels and some coke. It was probably the substances talking, but I thought of something that would be more fun. I know that you always go out with your girlfriends on Saturday. I knew you wouldn’t be home. I have pictures. I knew what your boyfriend looked like. All I had to do was set it up to go to the bar together. I made it seem like I was a concerned ex-husband who just wanted to make sure that the woman he loved was taken care of after the divorce.

Before I left, I took some allergy medicine from the bathroom. When I got to the bar, I actually felt kind of bad for what I was going to do. Your latest fuck buddy seems like a friendly kid. I won’t lie, he’s handsome, and he got a full ride to Harvard; he must be pretty damn smart. But I couldn’t resist the urge to get back at you. He ordered some fruity mixed drinks for us both. We talked about life and, of course, you. He spared me many of the grisly details, but I know what you guys were up to. You haven’t touched my dick in over a year. So, you were definitely riding this dude’s cock.

After a few drinks, he started acting a little tipsy. He was stumbling over his words and soon told me that you really had to pee so while he was off draining his snake. I cracked open a few Benadryl tablets and put them in his drink. I told the bartender to keep them coming and kept cracking tablets into his fuzzy navels.

I told the barkeep that he was my friend and helped him out to my car. He was passed out, still breathing, though. I kicked your boyfriend in the stomach with force to see if he would flinch, and I didn’t get a response, so I began my work. The only difference is I’m going to get 25 to life at the end of this, but it was worth it.

You may have noticed that I made you a romantic dinner with your favorite spaghetti and meat sauce. Contrary to what I’ve told you, this is not my last-ditch effort to get you to try our marriage again. I made the sauce the same way that I always do, a couple of cans of stewed tomatoes, basil, fresh garlic, chopped mushrooms. But instead of the traditional mix of lamb and veal, I used something different. I used your boy toy’s privates.

I Googled what testicles are made of, and they’re really just fibrous tissue, so it was an arduous task to grind them up the food processor. Still, after a while, I had a consistency that I could mask in the sauce.

Bon Appetit Valerie.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

Graphic Created by Keely Messino in Canva