Jeres has started a new business venture for which there is not yet a name, but it involves sorting people's non-relationships in a manner similar, but not actually that similar, to that employed in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind (a film which, incidentally, inspired my latest complete song, the chorus for which I wrote wandering the streets of New York in a daze last year after seeing it). I was his first client, and the session was held last night in the Owl And The Pussycat, and I paid with many rounds of booze. I must say that Jeres, bloodied of face but sound of mind, is not too bad at this new job of his, and may have been helpful. We shall see. After that i took my new piece of mind (ahaha) to The Grill room, where Wade was having one of his sexy parties. It was rather fun, as I saw lots of people I like that I don't see so often, like Blue and David Piper and Lucifer, and a nice girl taught me to dance properly - I never knew you weren't supposed to move the hands that hold, you see.
Afterwards I was treated to a premiere of Wade and Blue's movie - it is quite a startling, beautiful epic, if truth be told. I am most impressed. I shall tell you more of it closer to its release, but suffice to say, Wade has some pretty amazing outfits.
I was also shown the following letter, which may or may not be the greatest divorce letter I have ever seen. I haven't seen many, actually. But still. Enjoy!
I know the counsellor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.
She was young, maybe 19; with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice-skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an bottom that just wouldn't quit. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial.
What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I've tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagne. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.
And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole butt thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.
If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the remote is?