My dearest Scarlett,
I didn’t think I would ever have to write this letter. How could I? Does one ever think they’re going to have to write a letter to the woman, or man, that they’ve been dreaming about for what seems like forever? Of course one doesn’t. But here it is. My letter. I was going to sugar coat this for you but, you know what, you’re a big girl and can probably handle the truth. I’m pretty sure they’re lacy, sexy, and probably a thong, but they are big girl panties, panties I never got to see, but that is of no concern to me now. Nope, I’m not concerned about it anymore. I’ve moved on. I just hope that you can find the strength to move on too. I know it’s been a few years since you and Ryan; so hopefully this hasn’t added to your depression.
When I look back on all the good times we never had together I can only shake my head and wonder why it took me so long to come to this conclusion. Clearly, an intelligent man like myself should have seen the signs earlier than I did and not clung to a chance of us like a drowning rat clings to the last vestige of hope that presents itself as a plank. Sloppy, soaked, and skittish, I held on believing that you would come around, would finally see me as more than just that “hot guy in the Middle East” and want to do more than just exchange dirty photos on the Internet. I still can’t believe you tried to convince me of that. Between you and the Nigerian money scam people I almost had the impossible life that the guy dressed up like Santa Claus at the mall once told me I would have. Of course, he then told me his helper elf wasn’t wearing any panties and she had something pierced I thought sounded like an Eastern European country, but I believed him.
That’s me. See what you’re missing out on? I just wanted to include this photo so you can cry yourself to sleep on your oversized pillows in your oversized house down there in Hollywood. I was in Africa when they took this. Remember? I invited you to Namibia with me but, apparently, you never got any of my letters or emails. You seriously need to think about a new publicist because surely the ones with the little red hearts and stuffed with my boxer shorts aren’t over the top or worrying. The boxer shorts were clean, as my mom would be devastated if I sent you a pair of dirty underwear when she raised me to be respectable, responsible, grounded, and a gentleman. Did you even get the package of sex toys and lubricants I sent you? You didn’t send me a thank you, and that kind of hurt.
I woke up early one morning to hike up some of the largest sand dunes in the world in time to watch the sun come up over the Soussevlei. A group of us sat there, the couples holding hands as a large African sun crept above the first of the dunes spreading a fiery orange glow throughout the sky and casting waking shadows across the sand that would soon be burning and begging for respite. And you should have been there beside me, your head resting on my shoulder, whispering dirty things in my ears about how you never “bit the pillow” before; especially not in a tent in the middle of the African wild. But that’s what we were; wild in Africa. Well, we would have been had you had the courtesy to shake off your misconceptions about “gorgeous hunks” being shallow and only after one thing. Well, that’s what I tell people anyway so you’ll just have to get used to it.
But all things happen for a reason don’t they? Perhaps you didn’t follow your heart to join my loins while photographing lions because you felt your fledgling acting career was more important. I mean, please, did you really think movies based on comic books would become popular? So I returned to Saudi Arabia, broken, battered, but still fucking gorgeous. Yes, I’ve mentioned it a lot in this letter but I feel you deserve to bask in my verbal radiance, feel the turbulence of my aura, and seek shelter from the doubts that will fester inside your heart for years to come. Yes, we could have been so much more than a famous actress and a wannabe writer destined to never meet and “hook up”, but it just wasn’t meant to be. So I moved on. And I hope you can too. You had your chance, you didn’t know it but you did, but that window of opportunity has been shut (it was only open for the entire length of your adult life so far. Jesus, how much more time did you need to stop looking at plastic-molded models, actors in two bit movies, and rock stars who will make the claim “their band is bigger than the Beatles” and then end up selling bibles door-to-door with MC Hammer?). I’m in Dubai now. You wouldn’t even need a special visa to come here. But, I am drawing a line in the ever-shifting sand of the desert. You’ll be okay.
So pack up your best ball gowns, all the trinkets that you get from award shows and appearances with Ellen, and tuck them away and try and find what I have. And what do I have? I hope you’re sitting down. I have peace. That’s right. Peace. Try and wrap those pouty little lips around that and suck it back like a Redneck with a jug of moonshine. Try not to think about what could have been, what might have been, or what you might still want to be. Your days of shagging me silly all weekend are over before we had one marathon session. Your loss baby. This ride is for responsible adults only (and in the past some irresponsible ones too), and you failed to get a ticket. Shame. Hugh Hefner has been trying to get me at the mansion for years as I tousle more hair than the Tilt-A-Whirl.
So, my sweet Scarlett, try not to focus too much on how I don’t have to answer media questions every day, or dodge photographers hiding in my garbage to get photos of me in my sweat pants, or trying not to sound too pompous when I’m boasting about having 50 followers on my blog. Don’t focus on wanting to be one of my cats as they’re snuggled up with me on my couch watching sports or Animal Planet.
No, instead, try and look to your future. Maybe make a couple of low grade teen comedies and get your boobs out once or twice. You might make more fans. And more fans could be your ticket to love.
Take care of yourself and stop living in hope.