Dear Lost,

My, my, my where do we begin? Because I was there, with you, at the beginning of what I thought was going to be a great relationship. I mean two of your characters were named after two of my favorite philosophers, Locke and Rousseau. You had Harold Perrineau and Adewale Akinnuore-Agbje, two of my husbands from Oz. Josh Holloway . . . enough said right there. I could just watch that hotness all day every day. But then it happened. You just sucked. You seemed to have the makings of good characters. Characters that I should care about enough to either hate or love, and aside from Hurley I'm as indifferent as can be about everybody.

I think that's when you know you're in a bad relationship, when all you feel is indifference. I mean if your significant other was in say . . . a plane crash, presumably dead, you should care. Right? It's worse when you tell yourself you should care. Lost, you are merely a simulacra of a good show. Do you see what I did there? I used an atypical word to show you how smart I am. Just like if I told everyone I noticed the PKD book Locke brought Ben to read in the ... oh fuck you. Here's another big word to mull over: pretentious. Yep, Lost, you're a pretentious joke. If you were canceled the day before the series finale, I wouldn't shed a tear.

I attempted a pretentious Lost discussion once with a pretentious dick and do you know what he said to me? "Don't talk Lost if you don't watch the show." Truth be told, a discussion on the show with him would have only made me hate the show more. I feel like I dodged some sort of bullet. And he's partly right, I shouldn't shit talk someone I don't know real well. I do enjoy discussing you with Alison Wonderland and she's the reason I forged ahead. She told me you were worth getting to know a little better. Had I prejudged you? I had seen the first two seasons of you when they originally aired, and I'll admit to loving those seasons. The third season completely lost me. Haha. Lost, you lost me. I kill myself.

I have Netflix and during a bout of recovery from minor oral surgery a few months back, I tackled the rest of the third season high on Vicodin. I got through season four last month, and the the last two weeks I've been plowing through season five like a champ. Here's my main gripe with you Lost, every time you build something up, it turns out to be well, mediocre at best. I'm on the season finale of five, "The Incident"(I & II). I'm refusing to watch it. Lost, this is kind of hard for me to say, but we're breaking up.

You seem to be responsible for this wave of obnoxiousness sweeping the nation. Ever been in the bar and hear one white American tool bag call another white American tool bag, "Brotha?" It makes me want to punch my fist through a wall. If you don't have a mother fucking sexy British or Australian accent (or if you aren't black) shutthefuckup. Seriously. I'm sorry, Lost, but I can't forgive this excuse for blatant douchebagary. You caused it, and you've made no attempt to fix it.

It's odd, because when I initially made the decision to break up with you I suddenly felt better. I had invested so much time lately into our relationship, trying to piece us back together, and there you were, with all your empty promises. No, I'll explain things next episode, I promise. Just keep coming back. Jack won't whine like a baby in this episode, I swear. Michael Emerson won't stare like a deer in headlights into the camera and call it acting. Say whatever you want to me, throw out as many philosopher names you can think of, reference any and all literary greats you think will reel me back in, Hell even drop a ton of pop culture references in there, Star Wars, Stephen King, PKD and all. Yeah, I get it, you're cool. I'm still not coming back. I don't care about the Smoke Monster nor do I give a shit about Jacob. I bet all that shit is going to turn out to be disappointing. I'm finished wondering what really goes on with you between episodes. And don't even try to give me that alternate reality crap. One of my favorite short story deals with alternate realities. The Garden of Forking Paths was about 20 beautiful poignant moments of my life. Not six painful seasons of blah. What I do wonder ... how the hell is Vincent? Yeah, that's Walt's dog. And I hope Rose and Bernard come out on top. I loved them.

See I found the positive somewhere in there, Lost. No need to walk away from this relationship bitter. Well, it's the end. Time to part ways. I'm removing you from my Netflix que. You understand. And if things are still unclear, just wait a week, next week things will be clearer, I promise. Don't call me, I'll call you.

Don't think twice, it's alright,
Cindy Mayweather