Dear [Thing I Wish From Which To Secede],
It’s with a [approximate weight of citizenry] heart that I write you today. It’s true, perhaps I haven’t put enough thought into this. And maybe I’m off base. Or with the base? It's hard to tell.
Here's something I do know: we can’t predict the future. There’s no math for that. Just ask [failed-scientist-turned-celebrity-chef]. And because of that I must do what a small but loud section of my body shouts; indeed, I must react. There’s no better way to put it —we’re breaking up.
Certainly I wish things had turned out differently. But ours, it seems, isn’t a love story. Maybe if it weren’t for [wage stagnation/racism/boredom], you’d be the Romeo to my Juliet. Then again, they killed themselves. And I don’t need your help to commit suicide. I’m independent.
Sure, people will talk. Let ‘em. Except [snooty ally/secret rival]. Shut that shit down. Remember when they killed all those [foreign persons]? This is none of their business.
But even though I don’t want you anymore, don’t assume we won’t talk. This is a huge [power move/rash action/inconvenience] for me and I’ll probably need some of your trademark [official currency]. What I'm trying to say is: don’t freak out if you get a “U up?” every once in a normal moon. Just respond. Frankly, it’s the least you can do. Especially since I know about the time you killed all those [other foreign persons].
I’ll still care about you. In fact, a large [percent of voting population] of me will miss you. But also, [other percentage of voting population] of me definitely won’t. What can I say? Life is complicated. Geopolitics even more so. A forever union? Forgettaboutit.
In conclusion, I hate you.
Your [state/city/lover-landmass] no more,
The Free Nation of Didn’t-think-this-all-the-way-through-and-will-probably-send-an-apology-letter-tomorrow-after-falling-into-a-major-depression-and-also-who-let-all-the-animals-out-there-are-tigers-in-the-street-ahhhhhhhhh