Dear Cindy

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I.

Don’t worry about anything else, all you need to do is stay. I wrote so much about what I did to you, how I was a bastard and a sex addict but the bottom line is: stay with me now. I’ve met every girl in the world. If I haven’t met her, I’ve met one just like her, and they’re all garbage. They can all die. They wish they were like you.

So now that I have you back with me, just stay. Forget that I hurt you and then tried to leave you again to go get drunk with chubby sluts. I was stupid, made no sense. I’m not leaving and neither are you. Because I’ve looked everywhere, and I found my girl.

II.

I was up in the mountains when you found my journal. My list of war crimes. Where I detailed fucking other girls and then lying to you about it. You were walking around in the halls of my head. You cried all day, didn’t eat anything. I was seven hours away. Couldn’t stop it. Just sat dumbly on my motorbike and rumbled up the cliff roads. If I had any decency I’d have driven over the edge.

But you know that I had none. You read what was between me and God. My brutal, indefensible honesty. My goddamn journal. Data breach, complete self-incrimination. If I hadn’t been a writer then this would have stayed dead.

Or would it have. All those vapid whores, those girls who I hated but pinned down anyway – the scandal was too big. No way was I going to get away with it. I had flashbacks from Sunday School when they told me to be sure your sins will find you out. God is always right at the worst of times.

I deserved this shock but you didn’t. Baby, I’m sorry.

III.

When we met last spring I immediately wanted to keep you. You left though. But then came back. Moved to another continent, just for me, and somehow I still had the capacity to be insecure about it. To think: she probably doesn’t even like me all that much, I better go get some more girls on the side so she can’t hurt me.

I have more excuses but they don’t hold up. The real reason was: I wanted to have it all. You, and also some others. Creep to her bed while hitting you with lies on text to keep you waiting for me in yours. I was trying to be cool. But trying to be cool will make you sick.

I shut it all down and then it was just you and me. You dancing in the shower. Making fun of me and rapping in your accent. Your butterscotch skin. What it should have been all along.

IV.

The only thing that saved us was that I never officially cheated. I wasn’t Tiger Woods. My schemes were all over before we started up. It was all finished, done – that whole evil past where we were with other people. Other people: that concept feels backwards and wrong now. There’s no one else anymore. Just us.

Last time you left it was a crisis. I had to get spiritual and ask the universe to bring you back. I had to do it this time too. And now you’re here. You forgave me. You told me that you know the past is dead. Thank you for that, for keeping us alive. Thank you forever. I was one conversation away from becoming a lost alcoholic writer. Maybe I’d have written a good page but at what cost. The world has enough miserable people already. I don’t want us to join them.

So now you just have to stay. Don’t worry that I’m not safe or stable. Don’t wander off to some bland dolt with a desk job. Have pale kids and scheduled missionary sex with him. You can’t go because you’re mine. He’ll know it, see me in your eyes, panic in secret about it. In order to not hurt him, you have to stay with me. I was trying to be cool before, but what’s cool is this. So you just have to let me keep loving you. And pray you don’t get sick of me, because I’m your man again and you’re stuck with me. But goddamnit you better stop asking me to change the duvet cover because I hate doing that shit.

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20 thoughts on “Dear Cindy

  1. Not gonna lie: I hate you a little bit right now. But what good is a writer if there isn’t some deep, dark, ugly part of themselves they wish they could hide? My secrets are no better. I fucking hate being human.

    Although I admit, I hate changing duvet covers just as much…

    1. Damnit, I really want to edit this comment but WordPress is telling me that once it’s on the internet, there’s no taking it back. Anyways, what I meant was that this post is beautiful and heartfelt – made me both love and hate you. Which means it’s powerful because it’s indicative of the paradox of the human experience.

      I’m gonna go hide in a corner now…

      1. Or at least the Jesus option. I mean, hell, he got to be perfect, everybody loved him, AND he gets credit for the number one best selling book of all time. Talk about hitting the jackpot…

  2. Writer: Saved by love. Girlfriend: Standing by her man. Result: Second novel. Truth: Writer is such a playboy that his continued use of her is necessary for creative flow, and byproduct is romantic to her.

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