Snow, we need to talk…

Dear Snow,

I’m sorry to break this news.  I hate to break your heart, although–let’s face it–there was a period when your heart was nearly carved out and stored in a small box.   

To be frank, you’re no longer the fairest of them all.  You’re a sweet kid.  Everyone else shares this sentiment.  Your glowing presence is so infectious that even the forest varmints can’t resist your calls to help scrub dirty dishes and sweep floors.   

I asked you to change and you did.  You’ve morphed into a strong, independent feminist who no longer needs a man to fight her battles.  You apparently can penetrate steel armor with a blade or a bow.  I’m proud of you.

You remain adorable.  In many ways, you’re just my type of lady (brunette, silky white skin, very pleasant).   

However, you fail to sing and whistle any closer to some form of a personality.  So I’m leaving you for evil queen. 

It must be quite a surprise that I’ve been taken by the same lady who is hell-bent on destroying you.   But, she’s fun, she’s sexy, and she can craft one mean apple pie (and I don’t even like apple pie).  My immediate plan is to help alleviate her anger towards you and to spend some of my allowance (she’s very rich) to hire a gay dude from Bravo to improve her wardrobe choices.

I think she and I can work. 

Yes, she can be manipulative on occasion.  But she always knows what she wants in life (to kill you, sorry) and loves to laugh–really, really loves to laugh.  The truth is: I’ve always fancied the more mature women anyway.  She also likes to role play, usually as an ugly old lady (I have no choice). 

Let’s be fair.  You’re just as superficial as I am.  I’ve watched you fall head over heels for a pretty boy who you don’t know other than that he can carry a tune and squeeze into 31-inch leather pants.  But do you really love him!?  Why do you chicks obsess over men wearing crowns? 

Let’s not forget the weird living arrangement you’ve made with not one, not two, not even five, but seven other men–seven old, fat, short, disgusting men.  You whore! 

Sorry, that was hateful.  The truth of the matter is: I’m tired of your face.  Everywhere I turn, I see your bland, sweet-as-sugar stare on the television, on the internet and even in the newspaper.  There are enough shows and films about your life that I feel overwhelmed.  I need my space.  I need you to leave now.  Take your straw basket and cape and leave.  Don’t cry and chase after me with that big-ass sword you recently acquired, just leave me alone–at least for another 3-4 years.  You’re overexposed and I don’t want to share you with the world–they can simply have you, happily ever after (and all that crap).

Love always,

Chris