Oh, Ronnica, my dearest, thou hath let me down. I feel not shall I recover in the years that cometh, leave still the months that cometh. I mourn for the loss of thou, as thou were so dearest to me. I love thee, and still, I love thee, and forever shalt I love thee, until I feel the cold grip of Death. You hath disowned me, my tears are pouring unto my fingers as I type this. I may only stray a hope that you also feel this loss, this terrible sadness that I now face. Part of me wishes you would take me back, but another part of me realizes the truth: I am not good enough for you. I am but a poor, socially awkward, nerd. There is no place for the likes of me in the heart of one so amazing, so perfect, as you, Ronnica, my love. Why must you have given me up? Why have you let me down? Why have you ran around and deserted me? Why did you make me cry? Why did you say goodbye? Why did you tell that lie and hurt me?

During the text which pains my mind to recall, I told you that had it not been for you, I would have ended it right here and now. I now long to end it all terribly. I long to swallow all the pills which are in arms reach, and I have daily thought about it, willing myself to go through with it, but the end is too good for me. I deserve to live in this state of ultimate torture, as I have done something to let you down. I will thrice daily break the fragile bonds of my skin and soak the gently bleeding surface in pure alcohol, as a way to show that I am truly sorry for hurting you, my love, Ronnica.

Oh, Ronnica. My time without you will be spent with lonely nights thinking of you. I will imagine being with you, although I never truly shared any physical presence with you, I feel that there was a strong mental and emotional bond between us, that you had violently severed when you decided to punish me for my sins. A punishment which I duly deserved. I truly, truly, hate myself for doing anything to displease you.

Please forgive me, my love. I shall miss you ever so much. You cannot imagine the pain I will go through, or how much I will miss you, for the rest of my life.

Ronnica…

Please please please forgive me. I still love you. Ronnica.

Extremely redepressed,

-Sigmund "Halibutski" Freud