I am breaking up with you.
Now before you get all angry, let's remember that I made you up. You are not real. You are a composite of all the best characteristics of all the women I've ever met at the park, or seen at Target, or stalked on the blogosphere. You have recently washed hair and cute shoes. Your children stand quietly in line at the post office and have never watched Disney Junior. You always return phone calls, you never raise your voice, and your pork chops are delicious. I hate you.
But for all your sickening perfection, you have a fatal flaw: You are a liar. You tell me I am frumpy and lazy. You once said I was a bad mom, and even hinted that my children couldn't help being wild with such an incapable role model and teacher. You are wrong.
Oh, and don't even try to blame the wonderful ladies you are loosely based upon. Sure, they are beautiful and talented and lovely, but unlike you they have all the weakness and frailty and wonder that hums inside each human being. Maybe I haven't seen it all, but that certainly isn't their fault.
Since you are a figment of my imagination, the beauty of this break-up is that you are gone forever. We won't run into each other awkwardly at the grocery store or end up at the same parties of our mutual friends. We're done, and I couldn't be happier.