"This is 'Farewell,' not 'See 'ya later,' you heartless prick...I'm going 'Bye-bye' soon, takin' a permanent vacation from you and all of this sick world's ****! Then you and your little friend can be together --yes, I found out about that little situation this afternoon, but I'm getting ahead of myself -- BTW I'm writing you this letter as I drink a second bottle of your precious Chateau Margaux. Ha! I'm also 'doing drugs (as you so lamely put it)' this very moment, too, because it feels good, and I feel like feeling good right now because I feel so blue --
I don't think you ever really get the blues, not the way I do and others do, because you're so damn impatient with sadness, you basically spit on it, as you do with anything that's unpleasant or messy. I'll never forget watching you watching your nephew and our son learning to dive: poor Paul was fearful of hitting the bottom of the pool, it was just a temporary thing I'm sure, and so he looked awkward because he was fearful; your sister's son, however, with his blonde, sleek seal's head and straight little body just starting diving perfectly -- and your face, while watching him, registered the admiration you always show for things that are elegant, while you spoke curtly to Paul and told him to stop acting "like a fool"...
Anyway, you'll show up here, sometime after your plane lands late tonight from London (big freakin' deal) , after you've slept elsewhere, gotten laid, gotten sympathy -- and you'll walk into this house and you'll find me dead, probably face-down, sprawled out on tile floor, among wine bottles, among the paraphenelia of self-destruction. I hope to shock you a bit, give you a moment of regret -- at least some inconvenience! And you'll be embarrassed, for sure, because you'll have to call the authorities, and the reporters listening to the police scanners will pick up on it and might even report it, you being who you are and me being who I was. So you'll call the cops and EMT's, and they'll see my long, silken blonde hair splashed on the floor ($240 every six-eight weeks to maintain), then turn me over and look at my lifeless, artificially-tight, 48 years-old face, tan and dead like a Polynesian mask; they'll note the $185 jeans, the big **** pathetically displayed in a silk t-shirt ...And I'll look vaguely famiiar. Were they to see me alive, with life still in my big light hazel eyes -- the color of English toffee, almond-shaped, ringed with long lashes and really one of my best features (a song was written about them) -- the older of them may recognize me as one of the Beautiful Party Girls/International Lovelies at Large of 25 years ago, occasionally-photographed with rock stars, movie stars, and royalty. I was an easy-going, charming girl from Virginia and I was hot. Hell, I was fabulous. I floated around stoned and smelling delicious, always ready to provide a good time. I could cook a great Thanksgiving dinner and give an incredible blow job. I was discreet. I didn't tell on anyone. Screwed around. I married and divorced a Sicilian mobster (how your mother would die if she knew). I never worked but had money and credit cards. I had a great time. When you met me -- you, an attorney from a conservative Ivy League background -- you were intimidated and nervous. You worshipped me. You thought I was a prize. But that didn't last, did it? I turned out to be too superficial for you. You never gave me a chance, you know. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I looked forward to the opportunity to develop beyond the T&A thing? You weren't some dumb guitar player. Plenty of women started out shaking their moneymaker and ended up, more or less, ladies. You never allowed me this. Why not?!
Over the years you've humiliated me a lot. Maybe that swaggering little girl from Virginia did need to be taken down a peg or two -- I told you I never wanted our daughter Lindsey to live off her looks -- not that she could (I know that you won't like that remark -- but let's be honest -- 'our' son inherited my looks, as well as his father's ). But I didn't deserve your systematic subjugation. But what I found this afternoon was the last straw. I can't live such a lie. I know that I'm not beautiful anymore. I know that I'm one of those women who dress and act like a ghost of herself.
Please see that Lindsey gets all of my jewelry, and that Paul gets what's in my safe deposit box. I hope you and your new Love have a miserable life together.