An Open Letter to My Favorite Hit-and-Run Driver
Yo, how've you been? Time flies; it's just about 10 months now since we first met. Ha, you're right! We didn't officially and/or formally meet. Because you're a pussy. And a coward. And deserve every last bit of karmic guilt that's yet to come your way.
Wow, I should apologize for that. If you're a chick, like the gothy one with a dark car and shiney hubcaps like unsolicited psychic medium emailed about, you're not a pussy. You're a four-letter word that that rhymes with hunt. (Fun fact: It's also a synonym for the last word from two sentences ago.)
But I digress. You came to mind today when I went over to Collingswood to pick up the jacket I'd worn that night. Yep, you got it: The black leather one. Well, lo and behold the cops also held on to these:
Yep, my favorite jeans. The ones that got cut off me. The ones that have blood and street scrapes on them. I put them on a car hood since that's the last place you saw them.
All of which is to say, once I find you -- and, c'mon, you didn't think I'd stop looking, did you? -- you owe me $45 for a new pair.
Champagne wishes and caviar dreams,