Dear Mr. Mars,
While I find your declarations of love very flattering, I really must ask, for the sake of both your safety and mine, that you stop trying to demonstrate them. Yes, it’s very sweet that you think I’m amazing just the way I am, but we had barely even met before you told me that you think you wanna marry me. If I can be brutally honest, a large part of my disinterest is your somewhat apathetic lifestyle. You’ve told me many times that you want to be a billionaire so freakin’ bad, but when it comes to actually pursuing these dreams, you usually don’t feel like doing anything and just lie in your bed (I know your exact wording is “lay in your bed,” but until you leave some actual eggs under the covers, I recommend sticking with “lie”).
However, you seem to have taken my standoffishness as an invitation to express your feelings in more…extreme ways. It is these demonstrations that have me cowered in my apartment, afraid to leave the building. When I first heard the song you left on my answering machine, I assumed the self-destructive imagery you used was metaphorical, poetic. I did not expect anything along the lines of the company picnic incident.
Perhaps I should be more specific. I’m sure you had the noblest of intentions when you caught a grenade for me at my company’s staff picnic—to which, I might add, you were not invited—but the most noble of intentions counted for little when you then decided to show off the offending missile by thrusting it in front of my face. If the grenade had really been military-grade explosives rather than a shoddily-made firework thrown—at your request—by one of your friends, we would both be both certainly be dead. If you were truly intent on being helpful, you could throw the grenade away, or at least fall on the grenade and try to save somebody.
And then there was the time when you tried to jump in front of a train for me. Again, I don’t think you quite have a grasp on what is helpful and what isn’t. If you found me tied up and helpless on the railroad tracks, I would prefer if you untied me rather than just jump in front of the train. Wait. Let me rephrase that. I would prefer that you didn’t hire brain-damaged hoboes to tie me to the tracks in the first place! It was only your poor recollection of local train schedules that saved us both from a grisly end.
So please stop. Do not, as you’ve threatened, throw what’s left of your hand on a blade for me, set your body on fire, or take a bullet straight through your brain. I’m not sure I can survive any more of your avowals of love. Please, just stop before anyone else gets hurt.