I've made millions off this leather jacket. The pockets are ripped up, the lining is shot, and there's a couple of patches near the shoulder for when I fell out of a moving car.

I had to have my rotator cup replaced with a prosthetic, and I have a scar that looks like I took a shotgun blast to the collar bone, but the jacket somehow survived.

But the moment I felt a vibration, and heard the .mp3 version of "mail, mother fucker", I reached in so fast I split the whole thing up the side.

A picture of you, in sunglasses, smiling... with ruby red lipstick that you always joked that while it's not what god made, it's sure as hell what he intended.

Just a text message that read "I love you, too"

Now the jacket's dead

And I couldn't care less.