An Open Letter to Matt Damon’s Character in Contagion, from His Character’s Ex-Wife

[Note: there will be spoilers]

Hey, Mitch.

I heard that skinny blonde bitch you left me for was Patient Zero. Way to fucking go, dude. Nice environment to expose our daughter to. And speaking of Jory, thanks for keeping her during the whole “Mitch is in Quarantine” time. That sounds like a fantastic idea. Why not force her to live in a place where everybody just died of a mysterious, seemingly unstoppable, uncurable illness? Did you even Purell that shit before you had her sleeping in Clark’s old bed? I bet not.

And I don’t want to hear the whole, “But Patty! We were in a forced Quarantine! We couldn’t leave the city!” Because you sure found a way to escape when you were married to me.

Look, I might smoke in the house, but my lungs never killed a child, unlike what happened when that floozy whore you left me for came home from her “business trip” and coughed all over the place.

By the way, she was fucking all of Chicago. You know how I know? Because she killed Chicago. Just wiped it out in one spread of her legs.

Face it, Mitch. Your gross-ass, macrobiotic, overly-tall whore went to Hong Kong, fucked a bat, then fucked a pig or some shit?? (Yeah, I read the Internet. People are talking, Mitchell. Open your eyes.) And then she apparently got gang-banged in some Macau casino and gave the world MEV-1. (AKA: the shaky brain-melts.)

I can’t help but think back to that time you were like, “Oh, Patty. If only things were different and you met Beth, I bet you two would be friends.” Well, I’m sure glad that didn’t happen because all of her “friends” are dead. God, remember when we were on that trip in Mexico, and you got so mad at me because I kissed that one dude at the tequila bar? It was on a dare, and you know that. But you still made me sleep on the hammock that night. Did you make your skinny, farmer’s-market-shopping bitch sleep on the hammock, Mitch? Oh, right, you couldn’t, because she was busy getting her brain sawed open so that doctors could figure out how that whore was killing the world with her skankness. I’m sorry, what would she have called it again? That’s right. Her “spirituality.” Fucking pathetic, Mitch.

I told you that you were making a big mistake when you left me for her. I’ve never been righter in my entire life. I wish I was happy about how fucking right I was. I should be celebrating, but instead, I’m thinking about how you fought me on alimony, saying I wasn’t worth getting 15% of your monthly wages, only to marry the woman who would end up killing off 1% of the world’s population. Fucking asshole. I was supposed to go to Aruba this year with this guy I met online who seems really nice, and now we can’t go because your stupid-ass whore ruined the world for everybody.

I know I haven’t written in a while, and yeah, you might be surprised to hear from me, but since we’re all trapped in our houses waiting on our fucking birthday to be called so I can attempt to get a vaccine before I die of Whore-Flu (and PS: the apocalypse is raging outside), I find that I have all this extra time to catch up on my correspondence. Also, I’m almost out of Coors Light and someone burned down my corner store when it had that hippie-bullshit Forsythia for a day and a half, so I’m pretty doubly pissed off at you right now.

Anyhoo, I’ve finally gotten around to making a life list. Just one hundred times I’ve written “Make a time machine and go back and kill Mitch’s fucking whore new wife before she kills us all.” It’s a pretty fucking good life list, Mitch. You want a copy?

Mostly I’m writing because I want you to know I plan on having Jory for Christmas this year. I heard you made her have prom in your living room. You’re such an asshole, Mitch. You can’t control every woman you know.

I just have to ask: was Beth really worth it? Was she really worth all of this?

Fuck you twice,

(PS: Sorry about Clark.)

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