So, hi, future wife.
Long time no type.
Not sure why I haven’t written to you in a while.
Maybe I’m a little irked that you haven’t replied yet.
Or maybe it’s because of the economy.
But here’s the thing:
I miss you.
I was shooting the poop with (wonderful ex) Jen the other day and told her that “I miss being a delightful boyfriend.”
She replied, “You’re still delightful.”
So I said, “YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT I AM!!!!!!!!”
OK. I didn’t really say that. But we all know that I was thinking it.
I explained that I felt like my rampant delightfulness was being wasted.
You see, I have some spoiling I want to do.
Spoiling to a level you can’t begin to imagine.
I’ll ruin you for all other men. You’ll pretty much have to stay with me at that point.
Plus I’ll brand you.
Or am I?
Naw I’m kidding.
Or… am I?
I am kidding.
I want that big, ridiculous love.
The historical kind, you know?
I want EPIC.
Like we’ll start a band. Ideally with people that can, uhm, play instruments and stuff. After much debate, we’ll eventually settle on a name that is too inside-jokey and leads to confusion as to how to pronounce it. We’ll build a small, cult following at first, but then a song we write together will feature in some indie movie starring a tv star in an entirely different role, and we’ll become huge “overnight sensations.” We’ll name our first-born daughter Cadence. When she’s little and hates it, I’ll totally tell her it was your idea. And when she’s all grown and loves it, I’ll take full credit. I’m like that. But it won’t all be smooth sailing. Oh no no. There’ll be tests, my love. At the height of our fame, there’ll be jealousies. Professional and otherwise. Anne Hathaway will win some auction for guitar lessons from me, and you won’t like the way she snuggles up next to me to watch me play. And I’ll assure you “That chick couldn’t carry your jock.” And you’ll be all, “Then why do you own The Princess Diaries on DVD?!?” And I’ll say, “I’m holding it for a friend!! I swear!!” And later I’ll get asked in a magazine interview about what keeps our relationship working, and I’ll reply, “Irregular sex regularly” and you’ll be annoyed by that and decide to wear a skimpy outfit for our next show. And I’ll make a face. And you’ll say, “My body, my choice, bitch!” And I’ll shrug and reply, “It’s a lovely skirt. It is. I hear that plainly visible ovaries are in this spring.”
Hmm. Maybe we should start a book club instead of a band?
Have a good weekend, lady.
And show up already.