Staff writer Riya Mirchandaney breaks it off with her once-lover Ezra Koenig.

Dear Ezra/Ezzie/E-Z/my Contra/my M69/my Hannah Hunk,

We had a good run, you and I. You were the proud Manhattan skyline, the quiet promise of the Columbia quad, the hope and expectation of spirituality, profundity, and love. As a high school senior in suburban California, when I thought about my future and my stomach bubbled with nerves, you whispered your words to me, called me your “Young Lion,” and calmed me down.

How could I ever forget you? How could I forget the campus you made for me? How could I forget the irreplaceable soundtrack of my freshman year?

But the truth is I don’t know who you are anymore. I worshipped you, always fingered you back, while you became distant, emotionally unavailable. You started spending all your time with Rashida, that beautiful, poetic, rainbow-infused sunfish. Fucking bitch.

You came back though, after all these years, and you tried to serenade me with your sound once more. But who the hell asked for five minutes, let alone a hundred and twenty, of Harmony Hall guitars? Not I. Baby, I could care less for your uninspired, cloying, pseudo-country pop bullshit. Your voice makes me sick. Your music makes me sick. You make me sick.

Warm regards,
Riya

P.S. I’m sure you’ve heard about me and Rostam by now. We’re very happy together.

Image via flickr.com