Dear Deadpool, or, It’s Not You, It’s Me

Dear Deadpool,

This is the last letter you’ll ever receive from me. I couldn't bear to see the look on your face when I tell you, so I figured it would be best to do it in writing.

We can’t be together anymore.

Over the past year I’ve been there with you every step of the way. Through every explosion, one-liner and hare-brained scheme that miraculously succeeded in spite of itself. 

That is, until about issue #40. That’s when Daniel Way stopped treating you like the “Merc with a Mouth” and stared treating you like, well… let’s just say it… like a major pansy sissypants.

Frankly, Deadpool (read: Daniel Way), I deserve better than that.

  

The Institutionalized, You Complete Me and most recently Dead arcs fell flat because, and this sounds selfish, you showed me a side of you I had no interest in seeing.

Don’t get me wrong, there were times during our relationship when I was genuinely happy, like your fights with Macho Gomez and watching the plan you hatched to take down Evil Deadpool unfold. And if I'm honest, I enjoyed most of Dead until the last issue.

I love being with you when you’re doing what you do best: going bat-shit crazy with a pair of machine guns, katanas, bazookas, or whatever the flavor of the day happens to be. I love getting to listen in on the internal dialog you have with the voices in your head. And man, those pouches on your costume. I’ve always been a sucker for some good pouches.

But I stopped caring when your internal struggles changed from “doofus mercenary haphazardly makes good” to “action hero rom-com, melo-dram.”

I didn’t get into this relationship for character development. There, I said it. I’ll admit it. I only care about the mask, not the man behind it. I came to you for the contents of those glorious pouches and the hilarious and often violent ways in which you put them to use.

I came to you for knock-down, drag-out fun. And explosions. But most importantly for the laughs. That’s what made you special, Deadpool. You have your own unique way with words and you were always good for a few chuckles.

But you’re different now. The outcome of Dead changed you, and not for the better. The change has been a bit of a slow burn, but now that the smoke has cleared I can plainly see the path you’re on. I’m sorry to say I can’t continue down that path with you.

 Believe me when I say this: it’s not you, it’s me.

So this is it, Wade Wilson, the Regeneratin’ Degenerate, the Crimson Comedian… goodbye. Maybe we’ll meet again someday when the inevitable happens and you regain what you lost in Dead. Until then, I don’t see any way this relationship can continue.

Always,

Keith