Dear Amber (or whatever the f— your name is),
I have had it with you. Yeah, the sex has been great, but you’re so uptight in every other way. I know I smoke a lot of reefer. Maybe I’m even psychologically addicted. I’ll give you that. But I get up every morning, get dressed, get in my car and go to work, stoned. I’m stoned all day at the brewery and I come home and roll a fatty and you lecture me. Where do you get off?
You listened to that dumb radio station from the East Bay that fills your head with garbage and then at supper you repeat what you’re heard on the air. If I wanted it I could get it by myself. I know how to turn on a radio and tune into any station I want.
After all this time together you could at least be willing to sit on the couch and smoke a joint with me. But no, you have to read your goddamn Mary Gaitskill short stories. You’re the big-ass junkie. An addict is an addict is an addict, Amber, and you don’t even get what Gaitskill is trying to tell you.
If you’re willing to open your ears and listen, I’ll tell you: it’s lighten up, cut loose and smoke a doobie now and then for your own mental health. You have heard of medicinal marijuana, haven’t you? Why do you think I smoke it? I’m not interested in getting wasted. My doctor recommended it for back pain and insomnia. You might sleep at night if you took a hit.
Remember when we went to Yosemite for the weekend and you brought Mary Gaitskill with you and stayed in the tent reading and I did the cooking. You wouldn’t hike. What a waste. Somebody might think you were the stoner, not me. You’re the space cadet, baby.
Oh, yeah, I know I owe you, and I’ll pay you, I swear. I wouldn’t have borrowed the money if I weren’t out of weed. Dire situation. She came to the rescue. I gotta hand it to you. You came through. I guess we’re codependent. You enable me and I enable you. We’re the perfect couple,