Dear Depeche Mode

When I was young you carried me through my adolescense. I walked down the streets on cold, rainy days listening to something I could relate to. I wore out 3 of your tapes and ruined 3 CDs. I was devoted. To me you were all things and there was no one better.

I was hooked, you were my friend in lonely times, my make-out buddy in not so lonely times. I was excited when new albums came out and made excuses for the times you got it wrong. I had floor seats to your concerts, kissed Dave Gahan on the cheek in Manchester, met Andy Fletcher in a bar in Portland and flipped off Martin Gore in London after he broke a lot of hearts.

And that was the beginning of the end. See, you didn't know it but there were a lot of people there who came rather far to see you. I only came from Manchester but there were people from Russia, Japan and America standing on that cold, wet street. But you blew out of there faster than a loose chicken facing the ax.

And then I started wondering about my hero and about you. How I could justify supporting someone with no apparent gratitude to the people who loved and supported him? Dave Gahan, thankfully, appears to get it. But Martin Gore's miserabilism is stretching into absurdity.

We're growing apart. I no longer want to listen to new bland albums in the hopes of recapturing part of what I liked so much originally. See, I'm not lonely, disaffected teenager anymore. And really, neither are the members of Depeche Mode. But I don't have to keep up the farce, my livelihood isn't built on 'little girl' and discontent.

So, I'm sorry Depeche Mode, you aren't on my Favorite Songs iTunes playlist anymore. I didn't go hunting for radio promos of Songs of the Universe. I can't remember what Wrong even sounds like.

I know it's over. I'm hanging up my red vinyl boots and leaving my floor tickets to some other girl. And sometimes maybe we can hang out again. Though likely for not more than 5 minutes. I'll miss you.