My Dear John letter to Chris Brown

Dear Chris Brown, You may or may not know this, but I have on occasion (read: many times) referred to you as "my boyfriend." (An example straight from the horse's mouth: "Oh my boyfriend is on the radio right now!") I may have even mentioned to my friends that when "With You" came on the radio you were actually singing it to me. (While The Hubs knows of my delusions, he knows I am beyond hope and lets me live in my fantasy world. Kind of like when I saw The Golden Compass and spent the next month calling my chihuahua Lulu "my daemon." I know, I have a problem, but I digress...back to the matter at hand.) I may have been blinded by your baby face and strinkingly hip-classy clothing ensembles. Yes, it's true. But this is my letter to formally break it off with you. No more singing me catchy tunes, no more catching my eye with flashy duds. No, you are dead to me. Because no matter how you can croon or dance or strut your stuff, I draw the line at DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. Look who's delusional now. Signed, Miss E