To the man who stole my heart:

You've got some nerve, bub. And now you've got some organ. My organ. I demand that you return it to me. My heart isn't something that is yours to take. If you think you can get away with stealing my heart, you've got another thing coming. For example, the cops. That's right, boyo. I didn't hesitate to bring Johnny Law into this, just like how you didn't hesitate to snatch my precious heart when I put it down for one second to take a selfie with Keith Olbermann. It's not every day you see the Olbermensch in the park, probably wondering how many people my age would understand any reference to him. One minute I'm about to pet a silver fox, the next thing I know my heart is missing. And it didn't grow legs and walk away, that would be absurd. I know someone stole it, and that someone is currently the worst person in the world. You.

Consider this letter as an opportunity to confess for your crime. If you give me back my heart, and I'll know if it's mine, I will be lenient and allow you to continue living a life free of law vernacular. Words like, "objection," "sustained" and "on the next Judge Judy...," all surrounded by the sounds of a gavel and my self-assured cackling. You don't want to hear any of that, do you? Nobody does. So let's not make this more of an issue than it needs to be. A part of me is secretly hoping you're apprehended before you return a part of me. I've always wanted to sue a jerk for theft. In case you're wondering, a detective who is smoking a cigarette and wearing a trenchcoat, clearly a sign that this isn't his first rodeo, has already analyzed the crime scene with Tony Shalhoub-like efficiency. Here's what happened: He found your slimy prints in a... heartbeat. I'd be real scared if I were you right now, punk. But I'm true to my word. Come clean and the boys in blue won't come for you.

Of all the things you could've taken; my wallet, my kicks or my kefir, you went straight for the goods. You make me sick. Why would someone even need an extra heart? Who needs two hearts? Actually, I suppose a heartless thief such as yourself could be in a deficit. You better not do anything strange to it, like eat it or dress it up. You're a real class act, and should you decide to not fess up, you'll be on the receiving end of a class-action lawsuit. You've wronged my entire body, and my entire body is willing to provide eye-witness testimony. Each one of my ribs has known my heart closely for 22 years, and each one has told me it's just not like him to run off without telling anybone. My brain, although they often disagreed on things, is confident that my heart would never leave with a man without getting to know him first, no matter how gorgeous. It just wan't his style. And if you're still not convinced of how sealed your fate is, my back saw the whole thing. You truly can't win here.

And so the countdown begins. Will you attempt to elude the police and in doing so become the most foolish felon of all time, or will you give my heart back and atone for your sins? To quote the snickers mascot if they had one, "Chews Wisely." And you better grab a Twix and chew this over in your head, but be warned, the clocks ticking. Shh... do you hear it? It's the sound of the police, and they're coming for you.

I don't believe this. I was so deep into writing this letter that my hand got stolen. Great. Now I have to write another letter with my left hand, and he's less accurate than a cyclops on bath salts.

Sincerely,

A heartless dunce