Dear U.S. Men's Soccer,

I watched you fool around with Ghana again. You stepped onto the field with some sluggish form of obligation --as if you deserved to be there because, you know, you're so awesome.

Then Ghana bitch slapped you with your own purses.

You promised it would be different this year.... you always promise it will be different.

I've heard every excuse. "You were right, we're not starting the slack-ass, Beasley." "I'm sorry, I accidentally forgot I couldn't touch the soccer ball with my hand." "Ah! The cosmic potholes -- which create a sudden, unexpected, and momentary increase in gravity -- made me fall down in the box!" "But I JUST got my hair all perfect and I didn't want to head the ball and mess it up!"

And I, of course, believed you because I'm a softy. Because you look at me with these big, sad, soccer-ball eyes and talk about how the nation is growing in support, that you're finally getting the recognition we've always wanted for you. And then you pour on some syrupy words like, "We want you to be with us when we do it, Sarah. We want you to be right there to see the nation hate soccer less than wearing vomit shoes!" But it's clockwork. Every 4 years you come groveling via my television, begging me to take you back. Promising THIS time will be different! That THIS time you won't break my heart! That THIS time you went to a 3 month retreat at Soccer Camp Rehabilitation Center and really, really changed!

But after I saw you hug Ghana and walk off the pitch without even looking at me, I finally realized how unhealthy our relationship is. All the lies and the globetrotting -- you're never there when I need you! And I deserve more than that. I deserve a team who will make me cheer and have fun, not be angry and yell. Oh wow, I can't believe I almost forgot the yelling. You never back-check like you say you will. You never follow your shots like you say you've been working on. You are lazy and spend most of your time on your ass whining! And how many times do I have to tell you to put your shots on the net?! Man, I'm beginning to wonder whether you were actually staying late at the field those nights, like you said, or if you were cavorting with Lady Ref.

So, U.S. Men's Soccer, I am done. I deserve so much more than how you've been stringing me along. At least Spain can last an entire 90 minutes! And Germany never prematurely concedes a goal! Even Ireland understands the fragility of my heart and will buy me a shot of whiskey if I need it! So yes, we are DONE. Don't write. Don't call. In four years it will be like we never met. And if you happen to pull your shit together sometime down the road, great! In fact, I hope you do someday; I, however, will no longer be waiting for you when you do.

Instead, I'll be with a team who appreciates me. A team like Spain who plays beautifully and comes home every night with the integrity of the game still in intact. Or a team like Germany, always powerful and structured and who will never ever lie, or dive, because they're -- you know -- Germans; their own Mother's would kick them in die Kugeln if they dived. Or the Irish... sigh... I'll always have the Irish, real men who drink Guinness (for strength) on the sideline instead of water, and will never break my heart like you have.

So, goodbye, U.S. Men's Soccer. I hope you find it is what you're looking for -- someday you should try the back of the net.

OOOH! DO YOU NEED ICE FOR THAT BURN?!