IBJEDI
10-22-2005, 04:26 PM
Subject: the perfect divorce letter
Dear Amanda,
I know the counselor 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's cost me a lot of things.
I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I do not 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 Amanda." 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 this restaurant 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 ass 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 Amanda? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of
that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after
I'd 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, Amanda, 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 lasagna. 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 Amanda
ever put that 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, Amanda, 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 anal thing that
gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and
how that probably fueled 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, Amanda. 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 you put the fucking
remote?
Dear Amanda,
I know the counselor 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's cost me a lot of things.
I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I do not 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 Amanda." 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 this restaurant 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 ass 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 Amanda? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of
that before. I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after
I'd 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, Amanda, 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 lasagna. 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 Amanda
ever put that 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, Amanda, 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 anal thing that
gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and
how that probably fueled 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, Amanda. 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 you put the fucking
remote?