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Twisting all the bad things into good

Dec 12, 2012

The Screwloose Letters: The Apology





     My Dearest Wormwood,

     You've probably never read C.S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters, a book made up of letters written from one demon to another who discuss how to tempt humans into sin.
     It's a bit darker and more disturbing than The Lion, The Witch, and The Whatever.
     The Screwtape Letters have nothing to do with this, so I'll start over.


     Hey JJ,

     Lat time I addressed you directly was on June 9th, in the introductory paragraph to the criminally underrated Chapter 22, Preoccupations With and Preconceptions of Death and Dying.
     I said something I shouldn't have.
     I referred to your son as "Whateverett".
     I can understand someone taking offense to their greatest (pro)creation  being referred to as an interjecting expression of indifference and scorn.
     Whateverett.
    
     I didn't forget his name.
     I never forget anything.

     I can't remember if you've returned any of my calls or texts since I turned your son's name into a punchline, but what do you expect from someone whose greatest contribution to the world is an unfinished book full of "I" and "Me" and "What the fucks", read by you and 4 girls from our Honors English Class.
      I can't count Joe because he's my therapist, and I can't count Glenn because he's my cousin.
      Shit.
      Now I'm hesitant to even include you, considering you're my best friend and if this were a movie, you'd be in the credits just below me, and  if you don't like being...
      Damn.
      I was gonna tell you that if you didn't like being the P-Diddy to my Biggie Smalls, then you could "just below me"...which I thought was kind of Big Papa of me until it dawned on me that I'm the dead, and even worse, obese, one whose been dead since '95, and you're the one 6 feet above me pouring magnum sized bottles of Crystal out on my grave on my birthday before you head back to the White Party in the Hamptons to pour some more Crystal all over the tits of some models without ever removing your sunglasses while you direct them to go down on...well, maybe that's not exactly or anywhere even close to how it is or how it would be if your best friend was a dead rapper gone before his time with only 2 albums as a legacy, or if I was a dead writer who took too long to finish his 2 books (or 1 really long book) he'd be leaving behind.

       Besides the fact that I'd be buried in the suburbs of Philly and my birthday would come and go without even a 40 (which in PA, is actually only 32oz, but still referred to as a 40) of Miller Lite being poured,  the biggest difference would be that I left nothing behind that you could use to exploit the tragic death of your best friend, unless you've already dumped me after the "Whateverret" thing, negating our Batman (me) and Robin (you) type of relationship.
       Unlike Puffy Sean Diddy, you won't be chillaxing in a private jet telling my kids how much paper their dad made, you'd be showing your kids my unfinished book before showing them how to make paper airplanes out of it.

       I lied to you too.
       Sorry.
       Maybe it wasn't a lie.
       Maybe it was my naivete.
       You don't have to google, it means I was being naive (pronounced like "wave").
      
       I said that writing is easy.
       It's not.
       Not even a little.
       Not even at all.
       Do you have any idea how long it takes to write something that takes longer to read than an apology letter?
       Long. Time. Dude.
       Not as long as we've been friends, but I'd say approximately one hour per word.
       Well, I was just thinking I should say that I'm sorry for being such an asshole.
       I'm sorry for being such an asshole.

       Well, gotta get back to finishing my book.
       Hopefully you'll like it, and won't be too emotionally drained after the heart wrenching finale in the South County parking lot. You remember, you fell to your knees, with your arms wide open like you were the lead singer of Creed, weeping and sobbing until you hyperventilated, then finally got your breath back and started calling yourself "JJJ", the extra "J" being for "Judas", then begged me to absolve your mortal sin of 21 JumpStreeting me to my parents and the nonnarcotic cops in an attempt to intervene just in time to save me from whatever tragedy was lurking about a 3 minute drive away, and then you wouldn't stop hugging me, kissing my cheek after  you betrayed me, too shaken up to remember the other Judas did both at the same time while still having consideration enough not to use Jesus's t-shirt to soak up his tears and blow his nose with,  until I finally told myself this had already gone on too long and then told you "It's all good, dude. I forgive you. Now can we please get out of here before someone sees us?" And then I let you drive us off into the sunset in the middle of the afternoon. I know I don't need to remind you, I'm just prepping you so after reliving such a shameful moment, you'll still have strength enough to click on the "Like" button.
       I know I'd like to read something that someone other that myself wrote about myself.
       So, yeah, since I can't start fictionalizing things at the end, like it or not, you'll make an appearance in the last chapter.
       You're always there in the end.
       Because you've never been one of The Whoevers.
       You're the better half of  The Jimi Mac Experience.

       Still friends?

       Because if not, there are plenty of other guys who would love to have me for a bff.

       I lied again.
       There's nobody else.
       I'll never again lie to you or blaspheme your son's name.
       Hell, I'll even let you be Batman if you want.
       I think we both know already, you've always been Batman.

       Great Gatsby, Batman! I gotta finish my masterpiece.

       Please say "Hello" to Catwoman and the kids.
      
       Sincerely,
       Superman
      

       "Are we going to be friends forever?" asked Piglet
     "Even longer" Pooh answered.
          - A.A. Milne 





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