Let's Break Up with Franklin Lasalle

Listen, Karen, we've been together a long time-which makes this all the more difficult. That's part of the reason I'm breaking up with you by fax" ... and leaving the country tomorrow.

We had some good times. I never believed in love at first sight until I saw you... you were the most beautiful girl at the cockfight. Your wheelchair sparkled in the dim light of Pepe Escobar's basement, and the winding elegance of your feeding tube had me speechless.

What could I do? I had never met anyone so sexually liberated. Do you remember the first night we spent together? I asked what your favorite position was, and you said, "passed out in a trolley car." You blew my mind. Little did I know that the lack of handicap-accessible public transportation here in Issaquah would prove a recurring obstacle to our mutual growth.

Then came the fighting: You accused me of being controlling, of pushing you around. I felt hampered by your co-dependence, whether analyzing the unresolved issues with your father or sterilizing your catheter. Whenever your oxygen tank ran out, I felt responsible.
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And it wasn't all physical. As time wore on, the personality quirks I found so charming at first grew increasingly annoying. The sleeping 20 hours a day, the bleeding out the eyes. The once-spontaneous visits to the emergency room...

Your cosmopolitan, intellectual habits were so appealing, held so much promise. But "body painting" quickly devolved into my inscribing Oscar Wilde quotes on your numb inner thighs with a rusty X-acto knife. And hearing you "talk dirty" in a foreign language was only sexy until I realized that you had been translating movie reviews into Sanskrit.

Of course, the straw that broke the camel's back was when I missed my insulin shot and nearly died. There I was, squirming on the ground, an inch from death-and you did nothing! Nothing! You just sat in your wheelchair, head tilted on your shoulder, frantically blinking as I gasped what could have been my last breaths. I'm sorry, Karen, "Don't blame me, I'm a quadriplegic" only goes so far. At some point, you're going to have to stand up and take charge of your life.

I doubt that you will. You rich girls are all the same. You've been getting a free ride in a fancy wheelchair for way too long, and you're just going to keep coasting through life until you die of pneumonia or kidney failure or laziness...

Take care and I hope you find happiness in your future.

Formerly Yours,
Franklin Lasalle

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