Look, it’s not you – it’s me. Or maybe it is you. I don’t know anymore. It’s just that I need someone who will grow with me, not . . . on me. We made some great memories though, didn’t we? Remember getting caught in that Perrier can? Or the time you were covered in queso and nobody told us? Ha! Good times. But we both knew this couldn’t last. I mean, what did you expect – that I would drive a classic car and start singing about legs and sharp dressed men? Besides, I’ve got kids to think about. It’s not fair to them when I show up at their baseball games looking like Tolstoy or Stonewall Jackson. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, least of all you. We can still be friends, right? You can visit me on Christmas breaks and stuff. And I promise I’ll call you first if I’m ever stranded on a desert island or asked to play Moses in a theater production. We cool? Hey, hey, none of that. Chin up. You can’t fall all over the bathroom floor. Look, I know you’re gonna find someone better for you. You know, someone like Chewbaca. Of course he would party with you – are you kidding? It’s a foolish wookie who wouldn’t. Amiright? Yeah, I’m right. Now if you could just clean yourself up and – well, you know – if my wife finds you here on the sink and floor like this, it’s not gonna go well. Thanks.