Dear Pac-Man,
I hope this letter finds you well. I’d like to start by saying I wish you nothing but the best. We’ve had some great times together (remember level 58? I thought I’d never be able to eat a strawberry again!). But I have to remind you that I am Ms., not Mrs., Pac-Man, and until you put a ring on it, I have options.
To be honest, I’ve been unhappy in our relationship for a while. You’re cute, but in the end you’re just another yellow cisgender male. Sometimes I feel like I’m dating my father. And I barely ever see you. On the other hand, there are four suitors who are literally chasing me. I play hard-to-get, but I have to admit that when they catch me, I spin head over heels. Instead of being obsessed with the pellet chase, they lead interesting, varied lives. Inky owns an artisanal cupcake shop, and Blinky takes me geocaching. And oh, Pinky—or should I say Kinky? I think he actually likes it when I eat him. When I do, I can’t help but get lost in those big floating eyes.
The ghost that you still ignorantly call “Clyde” is now going by “Sue,” and prefers that we use they/them/their pronouns for them. I’ve had some great times with them, and they have turned me on to a vegan diet. Just cherries, oranges, and bananas for me, instead of those pellets, which you should know are really just calorie bombs.
Finally, our so-called “baby”? I wasn’t pregnant--a stork just dropped it off--and it had no motherfucking eyes. No. Fucking. Eyes. If that wasn’t a desperate plea orchestrated by you to keep us together out of shared care for a disabled orphan, I don’t know what is. At this point, you just seem pathetic.
To sum up, I’m going to be staying in the warp zone for the time being. If you wish to respond, you can talk to Inky, who is proving to be a good sounding board and mediator.
Chomps,
Ms. Pac-Man
