Dear Lady Chicago,
We’ve had a hell of a run, haven’t we? Countless beers have been poured. An endless sea of plaid-draped hipsters has been navigated (and dutifully scorned). And many a skin layer has been lost to that brutal bastard that is winter frostbite. Concerts, museums, and ale festivals: we’ve waltzed through them all with swagger and good cheer. And I don’t regret a minute of it.
The memories we’ve made will be with me always. And not just because of the blackmail-worthy photographic evidence and police records. No, the shenanigans we’ve pulled together are fit for a much better audience than a courthouse judge. In actuality, they’ll probably turn up in a novel, in one form or another. But my lawyer would like me to remind you that any apparent similarities between you and any characters in the story are purely coincidental. Yes, even the thing with the midgets and the paintball gun…aaand the thing with the ice cream truck and the stick of dynamite (although I do want to wish little Timmy’s family another round of apologies for the “bomb pop” mix-up).
It’s hard to believe that time has gone by so quickly here in the Windy City. It seems like just yesterday that I crammed every square inch of a PT Cruiser full of the shit I couldn’t pawn and hauled my ass across country. Egads, I shudder to recall braving the corncob wasteland of the Mid-West just to get here in one piece. I thought for sure we’d break down and be forced to spend the rest of our days as farmhands in Bumfuk, Nebraska. Or get mangled and sacrificed by a psychotic town of murderous adolescents, like in The Children of the Corn. Again…Bumfuk, Nebraska. (Sorry for the cheap shots, Nebraska readers. But, let’s face it. Stephen King wasn’t too far off base, amirite?).
But we made it. Even if that poor little motor did nearly explode, we arrived at the junk food Mecca in one piece. And it was glorious. I’ve never eaten so much delicious, sauce-drenched meat in my life as I have in the past year (keep any gay jokes to yourself, wiseass). Pizza, Italian beef, and hotdogs. If it wasn’t for my rockstar metabolism, I’d have grown three extra chins by now. And cankles.
And between work, school, and trying not to freeze to death in the winter, even a couple novel manuscripts managed to get written during our time together. Publishing deals have been won and lost. Hack agents, hack editors, and hack writers have all been met, hired, and subsequently kicked to the curb. There have been plenty of good times. Too many to even hint at here. And as long as I still have enough functioning brain cells to get the job done, I’ll always carry the memories with me.
But, much like Mel Gibson’s career, all good things must come to an end. I’m sorry things couldn’t have worked out differently. Compatibility between PC and Mac and all that…
But the world still turns. Life goes on, Lady Chicago. We found the fork in the road, and whatever each of us may find at the end of our respective tines, I hope it’s tasty. I wish you all the luck in the world.
Breaking up sucks.
Album: Warren Zevon's The Envoy