Yeah, so, like I'm not into cow milk anymore and frankly, yours is sour anyway, I'm gonna need to find a goat. I hear goat milk has a good MCT oil mix.
Pretty sure we have broken up no less than 50 times already. Take a fucking hint! I don’t want to be with you anymore! Even though we’ve been broken up, technically, the last 49 times we broke up. We never got back together again!!!! But, to keep this circle of distrust going … we are through!
Fildo,
I hope this letter finds you well, most likely somewhere between a busload of bachelorettes who have collectively forgotten their inhibitions ora gaggle of groomsmen who have consumed enough alcohol to legally qualify as a flotation device.
First of all, thank you.
Thank you for the laughs. The late-night rides. The questionable decisions. The unforgettable karaoke sessions where you somehow managed to transform “Don’t Stop Believin’” into “PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP SCREAMING.”
Those memories will always hold a special place in my heart.
Unfortunately, that place is now surrounded by emotional barbed wire and smells faintly of tequila, Axe body spray, and whatever died underneath the third-row bench seat.
But Fildo… we need to talk.
Well, I need to talk.
You’re probably busy right now. Adjusting the fog machine, replacing a disco ball, explaining to Brenda why there’s no “surprise pole-dancing package” for her mom’s 60th birthday, or trying to convince a bachelor named Kyle that no, he absolutely cannot drive the bus because “he watched Fast & Furious twice.”
I understand. You have responsibilities.
You have a job.
You have me.
And, judging by your passenger manifest, approximately 3–17 other people who apparently have “special arrangements” with you.
Frankly, Fildo, you have more balls in the air than sitting on seats.
And yes, I realize exactly how that sentence sounds.
So let’s take a moment to remember the good times.
At first, sneaking off behind the strobe lights was thrilling. Every bump in the road felt like fate. Every fog machine blast felt like romance. Every time that little “DO NOT DISTURB THE DRIVER” sign came on, we looked at each other and thought, “Well, clearly that rule wasn’t written for us.”
We were young.
We were reckless.
We were apparently illiterate.
But somewhere along the way, the excitement started turning into something else.
I realized I deserve more.
I deserve to be more than your side passenger of questionable pleasure.
I deserve someone who doesn’t whisper “Brah” to me immediately afterward like we just completed a drug deal in the back of a municipal vehicle. (Thats the new drug dealer guy I'm sure)
I deserve someone who doesn’t have to hide me every time their phone rings.
I deserve someone whose idea of intimacy isn’t saying, “Hold on, I gotta check the next pickup location.”
And honestly, the strip club stops didn't exactly help.
Those were… memorable.
Mostly because I discovered that jealousy is apparently enhanced by LED lighting and a fog machine.
I can’t keep competing with her for your attention.
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair to me.
And frankly, it isn’t fair to the party bus.
That beautiful, poorly ventilated, emotionally complicated vehicle deserves better.
And I’ll never forget the day you looked deeply into my eyes and said:
“Technically, the party bus is our love child.”
That was the moment I knew.
I had to leave.
Because I could already see where this was going.
You’d start naming the seats.
“That's your seat.”
“That’s my seat.”
“That’s where we conceived the emotional trauma.”
Soon you’d be putting a little birth certificate in the glove compartment.
And before long, I'd be standing at your anniversary party explaining to "Brenda" why the bus has custody every other weekend.
So this is it.
I’m hitting the brakes.
I’m putting on the hazards.
I’m opening the emergency exit.
I’m rolling directly into traffic if necessary.
I’m hopping off your bus.
And I hope—truly, genuinely—that someday you find someone who loves your disco ball as much as I once did.
Someone who appreciates your fog machine.
Someone who understands that a Pitbull remix can, in fact, be played 47 consecutive times without becoming a war crime.
Because honestly…
pew… peeeeewwwww… BOOM SHAKA LAKA.
Whatever the hell that was.
I loved it.
I hated it.
Please take care of yourself.
And maybe invest in some better air fresheners.
Because whatever has happened inside that bus over the years is no longer an “odor.”
It’s a historical landmark.
Scientists should be studying it.
The Smithsonian should probably be notified.
And if you ever see me at a bar again, please don't offer me a ride home.
I don't need your bus.
I don't need your fog machine.
I definitely don't need your Pitbull remixes.
And I certainly don't need another night ending with me wondering why the emergency exit smells like tequila and poor judgment.
I'll ride Heidi.
Goodbye, Fildo.
With fondness, regret, and approximately 14% lingering trauma,
Your ex-backseat
...or perhaps back-door
lover,
Someguy
P.S.
I took my fuzzy dice from your rearview mirror.
They were never yours to keep.
I am currently dangling them from a 2x4 like a pair of your balls.
It seemed fitting.
Every time they swing in the breeze, I’ll remember you.
And every time they hit the wall, I’ll whisper:
“That's for the Pitbull remix.”
Goodbye, Fildo.
I hope this letter finds you well, most likely somewhere between a busload of bachelorettes who have collectively forgotten their inhibitions ora gaggle of groomsmen who have consumed enough alcohol to legally qualify as a flotation device.
First of all, thank you.
Thank you for the laughs. The late-night rides. The questionable decisions. The unforgettable karaoke sessions where you somehow managed to transform “Don’t Stop Believin’” into “PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP SCREAMING.”
Those memories will always hold a special place in my heart.
Unfortunately, that place is now surrounded by emotional barbed wire and smells faintly of tequila, Axe body spray, and whatever died underneath the third-row bench seat.
But Fildo… we need to talk.
Well, I need to talk.
You’re probably busy right now. Adjusting the fog machine, replacing a disco ball, explaining to Brenda why there’s no “surprise pole-dancing package” for her mom’s 60th birthday, or trying to convince a bachelor named Kyle that no, he absolutely cannot drive the bus because “he watched Fast & Furious twice.”
I understand. You have responsibilities.
You have a job.
You have me.
And, judging by your passenger manifest, approximately 3–17 other people who apparently have “special arrangements” with you.
Frankly, Fildo, you have more balls in the air than sitting on seats.
And yes, I realize exactly how that sentence sounds.
So let’s take a moment to remember the good times.
At first, sneaking off behind the strobe lights was thrilling. Every bump in the road felt like fate. Every fog machine blast felt like romance. Every time that little “DO NOT DISTURB THE DRIVER” sign came on, we looked at each other and thought, “Well, clearly that rule wasn’t written for us.”
We were young.
We were reckless.
We were apparently illiterate.
But somewhere along the way, the excitement started turning into something else.
I realized I deserve more.
I deserve to be more than your side passenger of questionable pleasure.
I deserve someone who doesn’t whisper “Brah” to me immediately afterward like we just completed a drug deal in the back of a municipal vehicle. (Thats the new drug dealer guy I'm sure)
I deserve someone who doesn’t have to hide me every time their phone rings.
I deserve someone whose idea of intimacy isn’t saying, “Hold on, I gotta check the next pickup location.”
And honestly, the strip club stops didn't exactly help.
Those were… memorable.
Mostly because I discovered that jealousy is apparently enhanced by LED lighting and a fog machine.
I can’t keep competing with her for your attention.
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair to me.
And frankly, it isn’t fair to the party bus.
That beautiful, poorly ventilated, emotionally complicated vehicle deserves better.
And I’ll never forget the day you looked deeply into my eyes and said:
“Technically, the party bus is our love child.”
That was the moment I knew.
I had to leave.
Because I could already see where this was going.
You’d start naming the seats.
“That's your seat.”
“That’s my seat.”
“That’s where we conceived the emotional trauma.”
Soon you’d be putting a little birth certificate in the glove compartment.
And before long, I'd be standing at your anniversary party explaining to "Brenda" why the bus has custody every other weekend.
So this is it.
I’m hitting the brakes.
I’m putting on the hazards.
I’m opening the emergency exit.
I’m rolling directly into traffic if necessary.
I’m hopping off your bus.
And I hope—truly, genuinely—that someday you find someone who loves your disco ball as much as I once did.
Someone who appreciates your fog machine.
Someone who understands that a Pitbull remix can, in fact, be played 47 consecutive times without becoming a war crime.
Because honestly…
pew… peeeeewwwww… BOOM SHAKA LAKA.
Whatever the hell that was.
I loved it.
I hated it.
Please take care of yourself.
And maybe invest in some better air fresheners.
Because whatever has happened inside that bus over the years is no longer an “odor.”
It’s a historical landmark.
Scientists should be studying it.
The Smithsonian should probably be notified.
And if you ever see me at a bar again, please don't offer me a ride home.
I don't need your bus.
I don't need your fog machine.
I definitely don't need your Pitbull remixes.
And I certainly don't need another night ending with me wondering why the emergency exit smells like tequila and poor judgment.
I'll ride Heidi.
Goodbye, Fildo.
With fondness, regret, and approximately 14% lingering trauma,
Your ex-backseat
...or perhaps back-door
lover,
Someguy
P.S.
I took my fuzzy dice from your rearview mirror.
They were never yours to keep.
I am currently dangling them from a 2x4 like a pair of your balls.
It seemed fitting.
Every time they swing in the breeze, I’ll remember you.
And every time they hit the wall, I’ll whisper:
“That's for the Pitbull remix.”
Goodbye, Fildo.
