Thursday the 28th of January, 2010  

Roomate wanted: non-smoker aged 25-40 preferred. No dragons.

Dear Puff,

It is time for you to move out. Don’t get me wrong — when we first started living together, things were magic. You were magic. But you changed. A lot of things changed.

For instance — sealing wax. This seems like a good time to tell you that, dude, they don’t make that shit anymore. We came up with better ways of dealing with envelopes around the same time we got rid of rickets, and scurvy.

But I digress.

I can’t take your passive-aggressive crap anymore, man. You wouldn’t believe how sick I am of the travel brochures you keep “accidentally” leaving around the place. Yes, a trip to Honah Lee would be nice, but I can’t afford to take a vacation right now. Someone has to pay for your worm medication, claw removal, and working boat.

I’m not the only one who feels this way, Puff. I’ve received numerous letters from the fire department on the matter of “the giant, idiot dragon who keeps burning schools down when he sneezes, coughs, or just plain feels like burning a school down.”

I’m tired of having to deal with the fallout from such incidents, by the way. I should have said something about this when I developed that Pavlovian reaction to pitchforks.

I knew when I took you in that angry mobs would be storming the apartment building with some regularity, but I could never have imagined spending most of my free time placating every cryptozoologist, big-game hunter, or medieval knight that decided to use you — and, by proxy, my home — for target practice.

I am sad to say goodbye to you as a friend, but I am not sad to say goodbye to the scales that litter the apartment, the autumn mist that clogs the air conditioner, and the noisy midnight frolics through the living room that leave me unable to sleep. Do you not realize how enormous and heavy you are?

I’d feel bad about kicking you out, but I was talking to Peter, Paul and Mary and they say you have a cave by the sea. Why the hell have you been mooching off of me when you have beachfront property?

You’ve got a week to get out, asshole.

Fuck you,
Little Jackie Paper.