Fake Email To A Fake Friend



How goes it? Long time no see, er, talk. Or whatever one can reasonably deem interpersonal communication to be in this post-modern, post-literate world. How are your folks? Dead? Yeah? Sorry. Shit happens, I guess. No one lives forever.

How’s your job? Still getting paid every week, or was it bi-weekly? Can’t remember. You had decent benefits if I recall correctly. Stock options and other bullshit. Last I heard you got a dividend cheque for twenty-five cents. What did you do with it? The M&M’s machine in the break room? Cool. The peanut ones, or just plain chocolate? Right, right… chocolatey-flavoured icing sugar. Sorry.

I’m drunk, are you? Probably. You always were a miserable alcoholic, but I suppose one can’t fight genetics. DNA is a motherfucker, eh? Always lying in wait with a quart of vodka and a body bag of self-loathing. It’s funny, because I had a dream the other night — the first I can remember in five years — and you were in it, drunk as a skunk and looking to start shit with a group of Croatian tourists by pretending to be Serbian, making fun of Drazen Petrovic at some bizarre indoor amusement park in what seemed like Times Square. Or maybe it was just a porno theatre. You were wearing a Billy Bragg t-shirt, which struck me as odd, since you’ve never heard of him. So it goes.

Anyways, the Croats were having none of it and disappeared, leaving us embroiled in a bizarre game of football with a sea of blond bimbos and Matthew Good. You know, the singer? Yeah, he was there and we were playing some brand of disorganized football, but with gummie worms instead of a pigskin. There was no real coherence to any of it, sort of like when we used to play ball hockey in gym class… just a mob chasing a piece of rubber around until someone got hurt.

Good times.

Well, it was until one of the bimbos started talking shit and I decided to rip her to shreds, calling her a generic piece of consumerist ephemera with no agency and no self-esteem, just another slut to the cash nexus, a useless, brainless automatonic insult to her entire gender. I delivered this blistering salvo with my usual frothing vehemence, only to turn around to see Matt fucking Good staring me down with hate in his eyes. Bastard. I was just taking the piss, right? This little lamb had no idea what the hell I was talking about anyways since I didn’t deliver it via text messaging, but oh no, there he is, Mr. Self Righteous himself. Mr. Six-Months-Past-A-Complete-Nervous-Breakdown-Slash-Suicide-Attempt-“No It Wasn’t A Suicide Attempt.”

Screw him.

So I told him “I was just taking the piss man, I didn’t mean it,” but he’s having none of it. From this point on, we became embroiled in a heated argument over the semantics of feminism and the how and why behind why or why not a male could call himself a feminist, all the while surrounded by scantily clad teenage girls, breathing in their honeydew sweat as they tackle each other for gummie worms.

I don’t know where you got to while all this was going down, but you were nowhere to be seen.

Thanks a lot.


You know what? Who needs you? Not I. Who really needs friends? Lonely people. And that’s not me. I have me and I’m the best conversationalist I’ve ever met and the smartest person I know. Ninety-nine percent of people are complete bores: self-absorbed assholes with nothing to add to anything but their own warped, regurgitated, bastardized version of jack and shit.

So if you get ever get drunk (and I know you will) and feel the need to call someone (and I know you will), don’t call me. Take me off your list. Call Matthew Good, Henry Winkler, anyone. Or raise the spirit of Liberace on a ouija board. Whatever it takes. Just leave me out of it.

I wish I had never met you and I hope you have a painful, indigestion-filled existence full of blisters, sores and regret.

But take care, won’t you?




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