In Response: This is How it Feels

April 10, 2012

I ask you in turn, Bobby: how does it feel to look like a poorly-preserved wax statue of Vincent Price?

I know that your question was rhetorical, but I’ll answer it anyway. How does it feel/ to be on your own/ no direction home/ a complete unknown/ like a rolling stone?

It feels like shit, Bob. The absolute worst feeling you can imagine. The hopelessness, the spiritual vertigo, the sense that one is drowning in one’s own existence? It absolutely sucks ass. Thanks for asking.

Your suggestions were no more helpful than your questions were kind. You better take that diamond ring/ you better pawn it babe.

Wow. I didn’t think of that. I didn’t do that a few days before allowing a gentleman I met on 42nd street to put things in my bottom, urinate on me, and film the whole thing for fifty bucks. That’s out there somewhere. Like the diamond ring I pawned. See, I was being sarcastic before. I did think of pawning my diamond ring. Which was, at that point, my last possession of any worth. Thanks for bringing it up, though.

In closing, I want to say that I understand your hurt, but we were kids. You wanted to be a folk singer, and I wanted to be a lesbian. So you went to New York City and I went to Smith. The school where, as you kindly note, I spent a lot of time getting juiced. Also, I slept with a lot of women who either looked like Gloria Steinem and Eleanor Roosevelt. Mostly Eleanor Roosevelt. Although I’ll admit it, a couple of them looked like you.

Guess that didn’t make its way into the song, huh?

The thing that hurts the most, Bobby, is that you’ve never come to our class reunion. Not our twenty-year, and not the thirty, and not the forty.

And having your press agent send an autographed photo with the RSVP? That’s just cold.

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