The time has come for me to put my foot down. I was not raised to be a doormat, and I will no longer tolerate the duality of your affections. It is time for you to make a decision. Will it be me, a living-breathing woman with love in her heart, or will it be the King, who has been dead for nigh upon 30 years? You will notice I have nailed this to our door, as Martin Luther did with his 95 theses, and I will not be darkening the doorway again until I have heard your answer. You will be lonesome tonight, for I am staying at the Heartbreak Hotel.

I understand his charms, his tacky seductions. I understand that every word and movement is designed to lure others to him. But do not be fooled that you are the only one for whom he sings. Elvis has sung for millions, and he will sing for millions more, whether or not you are in thrall to him. He does not love you. His is an idyllic siren song, and giving over to him will only result in unendurable obsession and, eventually, madness.

Too long have I endured your slights. Do you recall the night I came home early from an evening with my girlfriends, and found you there on our own sofa—the one we bought together in the city—listening to the Elvis gospel album? You simply laughed when you saw my face. You found it funny.

How can you be so cruel to a heart that's true? How can you play his records in front of me? It is enough that I know you are doing this, that you are listening to him on breaks at work and even in the car. I have been hoping against hope that this is just a phase, a quarter-life crisis of sorts. I have continued to love you despite your inconstancy. But my patience is at an end. You must decide. Do not forget that I, too, am a hunk of burning love.

Love me tender, or do not love me at all.

Oh, and either way, that velvet portrait over the bed is totally coming down.