I've had enough of you. You aren't welcome here. If I see your dimpled cheeks or smell your baby barf and powder scent, I will drop kick you over the house.
Remember one of those first arrows that found that weakened artery you so much liked to pierce from then on? Let me remind you -- a tall, scruffy dude who spit tobacco in a plastic cup in my room and whose hobbies included Ultimate Frisbee, not bathing, and freebasing? Though, in all fairness, my lack of success in that tentative step was like a death cult stamping my application as "need not apply."
This heart is closed for business. You go on now. Scat. Shoo. Go darken someone else's door now.
The Idea of Order
Dear Love's Supplicant:
We regret to hear of your recent trouble but we insist that opting out is simply not possible. It's a standard contract that everyone signs once they lock eyes with that special person over the onion dip. If it is any consolation, see our "fish in the sea" clause.
We hear many such cases as yours -- some that would make your toes curl. We assure you that yours is not the worst scenario that could be occur (see Romeo v. Juliet; Othello v. Desdemona; Jason v. Medea).
To state that you are unloved is far from the truth. There are many people who tolerate the pleasure of your company. Case in point: attached to this letter are sworn affidavits from your mother and your cats.
Besides, without our services what would become of country music, sonnets, and adolescent graffiti? We note even now that your own burst of inspiration directly correlates to this so-called "hole in your heart."
In closing, we wish you the best of luck in all future endeavors and regret that we cannot dissolve the contract as it stands. Please direct all future correspondence to the office of fate (c/o the flying fickle finger).