the pumpkin

Dearest Peter,

I know a letter saying 'fare thee well' is impersonal as hell and maybe even hurtful. But you have clipped my wings and cramped my style for far too long. Lord knows a letter is easier than a goodbye that would turn into one of your feckin' shout fests.

You never let me do anything, never take me anywhere, never give me nice things. I want to see the Colosseum in Rome, run with the bulls in Pamplona, fall in love in Paris, the city of light!

And, I'm sick, sick, sick of eating pumpkin! Pumpkin porridge for breakfast, bloody pumpkin frits for lunch and feckin' pumpkin casserole for dinner. My shite is orange for God's sake!

I know, I know, you're a pumpkin eater. It's your thing, your calling card, your raison de vivre! But I can promise you this, I will never, ever eat another pumpkin again.

So, I was a very naughty girl, drugged your pumpkin schnapps, found your bag of silver and popped down to the market. And when I was there, I found the biggest damn pumpkin I ever saw. So, when you finally awaken please find the grapefruit spoon I wrapped in your letter. You can use it to eat your way out of Monstro the pumpkin that I carved out especially for you.

By the time you eat your way out I will be out of the country for good and you'll be out of my hair forever! Hallelujah!

- Love and Kisses, Mrs Pumpkin Eater no longer

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Link to Dear John, a Harper Lewis rogue challenge