Maybe Brittany and I are too young to get married. I mean, after all, that’s why it didn’t work out with you and Blaine, right? Or maybe it didn’t work out because you’re a judgmental little geroniphile (?) with a mouth like cat’s ass. Maybe Blaine got tired of hearing your shrill self-aggrandizing lecture about how you felt the two of you were at the very apex of the gay rights movement every time you so much as cooked macaroni and cheese together, or farted. Maybe Blaine didn’t wanna be with someone who looks like they just removed their top row of dentures every time they smile, or someone who doesn’t dress like an extra out of one of Andy Dick’s more elaborate wet dreams. Maybe he grew weary of dating a breathier more feminine Quinn Fabray. Maybe he finally got freaked out by your strange obsession with old people that causes you to skulk around nursing homes like one of those cats that can smell cancer. Maybe he got tired of watching you drape yourself on every piano you happen past to entertain exactly no one with. Say some song that Judy Garland choked on her tongue in the middle of, or some sassy old Broadway standard made famous by dead alcoholic crump. Maybe Blaine woke up one day and said, ‘You know what, I don’t wanna marry a sexless self-centered baton-twirler. Maybe I need someone who knows more than three dance moves:’ the finger wag, the shoulder shimmy, and the one where you pretend to twirl to invisible rainbow-colored ribbons attached to your hips, so you know what, maybe that’s why it didn’t work out, maybe it has nothing to do with me and Brittany, maybe it’s just that you are utterly, utterly, intolerable. Maybe that has something to do with it.