Found this on my bureau this morning:
Dear Ryan,What in the blue hell are you trying to do to me?
For the first few years of our time together, you were really nice. Even in high school, your record was stellar. Then, at some point freshman year of college, you started to change. Something was suddenly different. Maybe on the outside you looked the same to people, but on the inside…well, I could feel it.
I don’t know why you make it so hard on me. And after that first time, well, I should have stopped you right then and there. But no, me and my passive-aggressive self were quiet, and enabled you on your path of destruction. So you’d treat me bad, but I wouldn’t say a word. I swelled up inside, but not in a good way. Not with “pride” but with “I’m going to explode very shortly, you ungrateful git”.
After college, you seemed to slow down. Revert to the nice boy you were growing up. I liked this period. I know this was largely due to lack of income, but I appreciated the break nonetheless. Every once in a while you’d give me a push, but I chalked them up to love taps. We’ve got history, you and I, and it’s not easy to walk away from that.
Lately, though…well, let’s just say I’ve got Johnnie Cochran on speed dial. You need to be stopped. And I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna be strong. I’ve got my Gloria Gaynor records going full blast as I leave you this letter. When you wake up, I’ll be long gone. I’m staying with my aunt in Framingham. Don’t call. Don’t beg.
It’s over. It’s not me, it’s you.
Sincerely,
Your Liver
A surprise, but only a small one. Given the punishment I’ve placed upon it over the last two nights, I deserve to be liverless.
It’s not my fault, really. Before Karaoke 2: Electric Boogaloo, I went to a friend’s going away party. And when I got there, I discovered to my joy that there was an open tab. Open tab. No two words in combination are sexier. Except maybe “designer slacks”. Mmmm, designer slacks. But I digress. Open tab. “Something to drink?” ask the waitress. “Yea, verily, ye bar wench. A Bass Ale to slake my thirst!”
And I wasn’t even drunk yet.
Five pints later, I stumble to the E line to return to Back Bay. Stop #2 on Tuesday became Stop #2 on Wednesday. The goal of the evening were threefold:
All goals were met. Senior management for both companies would be so proud.
And if you’re wondering if I crooned like last time: yes, yes I did. The song? “Your Song” by Elton John. And by all accounts, I was pretty successful in my attempts. The table of nurses nearby held their lighters aloft halfway through. Got some high-fives. Few pairs of panties tossed my way. Tom Brady gave me his phone number along with a message saying, “I’d love to play catch with you sometimes…” Whatever that means.
The performance was fairly schizophrenic, in that I kept veering into the “Moulin Rogue” version, which doesn’t always sound right with the Elton John music. But the Ewan McGregor version is the one I know best, since I watch that scene at least once every two weeks. I did veer back into Elton land right around the time of “You see I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue” lest I bite it hard on the high notes. That being said, I actually hit the higher part on the last “I hope you don’t mind…” which was cool.
So that was all well and good, but my body needs a bit of a rest now. I’m not old, but I’m not young either. On top of that, I’m not a girl, not yet a woman. It’s a lot to deal with, I’m telling ya.