I’m writing to tell you that it’s over between us. I’m really sorry. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m leaving you for a better show. A show that fulfills my needs; that satisfies me in ways you never could. A show that respects me, doesn’t play games with my head, and doesn’t jerk me around or tease me. In the beginning, you were sexy, fun, and intriguing, but now all you do is leave me with unanswered questions, frustration, and the worse case of blue balls since Nick Lachey before he married Jessica. LOST, you are the hot, unattainable woman that refuses to put out, yet I keep coming back to you week after week in the hopes that you will end my suffering. Sure, you provide relief once in a while, you satiate my desires in small doses, but I need more. I’ve had enough. My new show makes me happy. Battlestar Galactica is a real show that knows how to treat me. Maybe it’s not as pretty or flashy as you, but it’s got real substance. it has personality and intelligence, and best of all, it’s no prude. Battlestar knows how and when to give up the goods, leaving me gasping for air and drooling in anticipation for the next time we can get together. Hell, my new show even has its’ lead actress in a Playboy pictorial. It would be more likely for me to see Osama Bin Laden walking down my street with a Sasquatch than Evangeline Lily, Yunjin Kim, or Emilie De Ravin in their birthday suits. Don’t worry, though. We can still be friends. We’ll hang out every Wednesday night and I’ll still enjoy your company, but you aren’t my main squeeze anymore. Have a nice day!