dear alex o.

dear alex o.,

i got nothing better to do tonight, and i'm not tired yet, so i'm gonna write you a letter you'll probably never read. i was jealous of you because you had facial hair in the eighth grade. you could've grown a full beard if you wanted to. that wasn't fair. i could barely get a mustache, and if i did try to grow my mustache, people would always just say it looked like there was dirt above my lip. life was rigged from the get-go.

in eighth grade, you went to cotillion, and you got in a fight with some guys from another school at leatherby's. i wasn't cool enough to be there, so i just heard about it the monday after. i guess you were the shit, refusing to back down to some strange boys from another school. you just went at them and they busted your arm. we were private school, definitely not ghetto enough for gang rivalries and shootings, so we settled for your arm getting broken, and it was big news. while you were out defending our school's rep at some ice cream joint, i was probably at home, watching jenna and felicia get it on in fucking rich 3.

i remember your dad was a big fat dude, and when i picture him now, i can only picture john goodman sitting in a chair, drinking a beer, wearing his trucker hat. i know john goodman isn't your dad, but that's who i imagine. your mom was cool. she was always nice to me, and pretty much to everyone else. not like the other yard duties, who may or may not have been blatant racists.

we were real pissed, though, when you made the basketball team, and you didn't even try out because of that broken arm. you looked all surprised, too, when they called your name for the a team. that's just how things were, though. some people work hard, and they get rejected and fail. other people don't have to do a goddamn thing, and they make the a team. it was good, though. i just wish they had taught us that lesson earlier in life, you know? like, i'd get to kindergarten, and the teacher just flat out says, the rest of your life is gonna be awful. get used to it.

i think you dated some of the girls in our class, and some of the girls in the class ahead of ours. that's how pimp you were. getting the older girls when the rest of us chumps barely even knew their names. you didn't do any of the stupid shit. you weren't ever at those sleepovers where we'd drink soda and eat pizza and play mortal kombat. i just imagined you living the life of the fonze, just fucking some new random girl every night. i'm sure that's not how things were, but that's how it'll live in my mind forever. take it for what you will.

we'd talk about music sometimes. i'd have to school you on what was good. once, you gave me shit for liking the gin blossoms. the next day or so, you were also into the gin blossoms. you said i was right. i knew what i was talking about. i couldn't do shit else, but i could know what alternative bands you should be listening to on mainstream radio. i also knew how to spell like a fucking champ.

like most everyone else, i haven't said shit to you since we last saw each other at graduation in 1997. i heard you got married. i don't know what else you're doing. i want to think i don't care, but i probably do.

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