Dear Brad Pitt

I’ve waited to hear from a man who took ten months to kiss me, and I got “I miss your cute ass” from a man I hadn’t seen in ten months.

I’ve watched a man leave with a bimbo, because physical appearance and the blank stare of a blond making duck lips are clearly worth more than any amount of smiles, laughs, and kindness. But the heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing…

I’ve listened as a man confessed his love for me and told me how much he had missed me… then never heard from him again. But the cock has its reasons of which respect knows nothing.

I’ve listened to a man berate me for things I should have been berating him for, but I am a busy woman: I smiled, gave a disappointed “right,” and bid him adieu with middle finger raised.

I’ve handed tissues to a Chicago mafioso whose greedy mistress had vanished. He reminded me to always embrace my enemies to take their measurements for the casket. I responded that I didn’t get on my knees to blow them, but to gather their ashes.

I’ve smiled at a man who lied so much the falsehoods oozed out of his every pore. No need for lube. And don’t go thinking I’m passive. There are no victims in games of sex or chance.

Brad, at first I was going to write to Cupid, but the ninny has lousy aim. You’ve got a 50/50 chance with him.

When he’s on target, he matches up couples worthy of Walt Disney, and they live happily ever after.

When he misses the mark, he gives you a taste of happiness that’s about as much use as a premature ejaculation.

So I turned to you, for one simple reason: you were my fantasy, and it was thanks to you—I can admit it now that the statute of limitations is up—that I was able to fulfill my marital duties before the count of ten. Picturing you on top of me, your gaze lost in mine, biting your lip as our two bodies became one—that was the best kind of aphrodisiac.

And since that jerk Cupid has apparently decided that I will never get my hands on the Holy Grail, if a man ever asks me, “Now, a question of etiquette—as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?” I can answer, “Two fingers will be just fine.”

Yours truly,

Audrey Lisquit

Any resemblance to persons or events, past or present, is purely coincidental. “Now, a question of etiquette—as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?” from Fight Club,  (1999, David Fincher)


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