After decades of contemplation, a writer delivers responses to these pleading iconic soft-rock songs.
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Meeting in the middle of the day is out of the question. I am clinging to my job for dear life as it is. Meeting in the middle of the night is maybe possible when Harry has the kids, but I seriously need my eight hours just to hold my sanity together lately. Also, I hate to say this, but when you characterize my kisses as “Southern”? That feels a little bigoted to me. And please don’t waste what little time we have together trying to “smell the moon in my perfume.” I don’t know what the moon smells like, but I don’t think it’s Windsong. I know you don’t ask for all that much, but that’s a little too much in my book. You want someone to care? Well, caring is a two-way street. I have needs too, you know.
When have I ever let you down? You cried a tear? I wiped that shit dry in seconds. You felt a little confused? I cleared your mind, like the magic mind-clearing motherfucker that I am. You sold your soul? I walked straight out the door and I bought it back for you, like some kind of a sucker. I mean, how many times can one person sell their soul? Do you think I’m made of money?
Anne, you’re a fucking mess. Always confused, always lost, always snotting into your hands and expecting me to be right there with the goddamn hanky. I’ve never been much of a feminist, but it blows my mind that you expect a man to give you your dignity. Dignity is something you get for yourself, Anne. You’d know that if you ever got out of those stinky pajamas, took a shower, and left the house every now and then.
I honestly feel like I’ve put you so high on a pedestal that I never really saw you clearly until now. I know you think you can see eternity up there, but that’s just the grass talking. Yes, it’s true that I needed you a long, long time ago, but right now needing you feels like clinging to a tattered binky that smells like cat vomit. You are a black hole of limitless need who’s leeched off my good graces for far too long.
Some advice? Get a dog.
I want a divorce. I know it seemed incredibly romantic to you that we put up nearly identical profiles in the classified ads section, and then answered each other’s ads, but with a little time and distance that strikes me as pathetic, frankly. How many times have we been over this in couple’s therapy? A shared love of pineapple-flavored cocktails is not the foundation on which to build a successful intimate relationship. And by the way, getting caught in the rain sucks. Why don’t you carry an umbrella with you for a change like a mature adult with half a brain? Every teenager this side of Denver likes making love at midnight, but frankly it’s not enough to hold two very different people together indefinitely, plus I’m way too old to fuck in the sand anymore. I know I used to find your spontaneity romantic, but honestly, your escapist tendencies are really starting to drag me under. That, and your weight. Health food and yoga are not the enemy—that 40-pound sack of fat in your mid section is, and it’s going to give you a heart attack sooner or later. None of the other lovely ladies you flirt with down in O’Malley’s are going to find a pacemaker sexy, trust me.
Divorce papers are on the way. Please try to be an adult for once and sign them.
I should kick your ass, you know that? You think I don’t notice how funny and cool with the lines you are whenever you’re around me and Charlene? We are in love, dude. Our relationship is not a charade, ok? It’s the real deal.
You are maybe the vainest, most pathetic asshole I’ve ever met. Maybe you should dedicate some of that time you spend looking in the mirror to asking yourself what kind of a loser tries to steal his buddy’s lady.
You know why you can’t find a woman like that? Because you’re a selfish prick, that’s why.
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