invited you to live with me I was taking into consideration not only our romantic history, but also the abuse you suffered as a child, and the PTSD you incurred during your military service—during which you avoided the horrors of war, but not of toxic masculinity. I’ve had to reconsider this decision. First, the invitation was ultimately driven by my financial straits, and yet your prorated rent is a week late. Second, the fact that you’ve already been bringing home Brie wheels and encouraging me to eat them is a source of considerable frustration. (You know Brie gives me an acne beard!) Clearly you are trying to wreak havoc on my normally decent skin to the point where no other man will date me and I will be forced to get back together with you as a last resort. You have not declared your romantic intentions, but I could see them plainly in your desire to remain in the room with me and the purple merman! Everett, I need you to understand that when we finally reached the shore of our breakup after the tumultuous passage of our relationship, in my soul I burned the ship of our love to the ground once and for all. (As a former navy man, I hope this metaphor resonates with you without triggering your PTSD—it does pain me to compare myself to the cruel Hernán Cortés so rightly depicted as evil and syphilitic in much of the work of The Three Great Muralists.)
When I sat down to pen this letter, I had resolved to ask you to move out, but as I write, Roscoe is gazing up at me imploringly. That capricious little miniature dachshund loves you so much! (And you have been walking Roscoe every single day AND scooping Charlize Theron’s litter box—a gold star for ground rule #1b!) I can hardly bear to consider the furball moping that will follow your permanent exit from my house. While your presence here threatens to be a gigantic cockblock, ironically the fact that you sometimes administer Roscoe’s 8 p.m. insulin shot might actually allow me to someday go on a date with Patrick. So for now, my longtime friend, consider yourself on final warning.
Your EX-girlfriend,
Roxy
P.S. When are you going to return my backpack you borrowed? (This pilfering warrants a new rule #7a. YOU WILL NOT borrow my stuff. Hands off!)
June 24, 2012
Dear Everett,
It was one year ago today that Brant Bitterbrush abandoned me with hardly an explanation. He had promised lifelong fealty, he had sworn himself to be my soul mate, and then he was gone. Little did I know then that Brant Bitterbrush had an even worse betrayal in store for me, one that triggered my current state of artistic paralysis. Is it any wonder that my workday today, on this anniversary of my broken heart, was a total fiasco and may result in my termination?
My day was emotionally harrowing on so many levels! It all started when I was riding my bike to work. As I headed down Sixth Street, in the distance I could see the Waterloo Video sign had been taken down and replaced! As you know, I cried when Waterloo Video closed a few months ago. Sure, these days we can download any movie we want in an instant. But what a cheap and sterile replacement for wandering the grubby aisles of Waterloo Video, where the disgruntled staff members wrote loving recommendations (or warnings) on Post-its adhered to each video. When Brant Bitterbrush and I were still a couple, every time we wanted to rent a video we would spend a good hour in Waterloo, passing especially hilariously reviewed video boxes to each other. The last time Brant and I were there together—just over a year ago—I considered renting the Coen brothers’ film “The Ladykillers.” I picked up the box and the note read: “Put this down and go wash your hands immediately—you are holding a piece of shit.”
Just as my love for Brant Bitterbrush was not enough to keep us together, my appreciation for Waterloo Video, a true cultural institution, was not enough to keep the store open. Until today, I held great hope an establishment worthy of the location’s storied history would take its place. Perhaps a tiny brewpub or vintage clothing store would move in. Even a funky greeting card stand would not have raised my ire. So long as a local store took over the space. As you know, that intersection of Sixth Street and