I love you, I truly do. You've provided me with an unending supply of laughter and tears, shock and dismay at who was born a man or woman, and whether or not that dude sitting on the stage really IS the father.
I've enjoyed your smug smiles as you declare paternity results, and the various styles of glasses you've adorned through the years. You're respectful, gentle, but you know how to lay down the law when ladies start throwing chairs up in that mother. You keep it classy, Maury, and I respect you for it.
But with my New Year's resolution of trying to slow my life down and de-stress, I think we should start seeing other shows.
I'm sorry to have to let you down, Maury, but the yelling and screaming has instilled a dangerous level of anxiety in me that only a fellow named Dawson can cure.
It's not because he's younger than you, I swear, because age is just a number. But I just couldn't resist his overscholarly dialogue, witty snapbacks and his love triangle with Jen and Joey Potter. His calming demeanor and bromance with one Pacey Witter hooked me, and the feeling is so strong I cannot resist.
Maybe we'll meet again, Maury, once my life slows down and I build back up a tolerance for yelling, but until that day, here's a peck on the cheek and a hearty handshake. I will always love you. Good luck finding out who the father is.