(Click here to view the full-page, handwritten version of this letter)

Dear __________,

Your picture is still on my wall. A little black cloud in a dress, with your chrome heart shining in the sun -- so pretty when you're unfaithful to me. You don't look different but you have changed.

It's coming on Christmas. They're cutting down trees, they're putting up reindeer. It's so cold in this house. I can't stand the rain against my window. The bed's too big without you. I'll be sleeping with the television on, talking to the shadows from one o'clock till four, thinking how it used to be. It's a desperate situation. All I perceive is wasted and broken. Yeah, we still go to dinner sometimes, but we don't sneak a kiss when the waitress turns around. I've been forgotten.

You don't love me and I know now. Nothing hurts like someone who knows everything about you leaving you behind.

Everybody's high on consolation. Who would've thought that a boy like me could come to this? I go walkin' after midnight, doing anything just to get you off of my mind. Confidentially, I never had much pride. But now I rock a bar stool and I drink for two. And then the jukebox plays a song I used to know:

"I used to fart under the covers and she'd just laugh.
She even cleaned my balls when we would take a bath."

There's always something there to remind me. I saw two shooting stars last night -- I wished on them but they were only satellites. Is it wrong to wish on space hardware? It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time. Did you stand by me? No, not at all. Tell me, where did you sleep last night?

Oh shit. Don't speak. Shut up, 'cause I know all about it. You keep lyin' when you oughta be truthin'. Heard it from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from another you been messin' around. Your cheatin' heart, headed for the cheatin' side of town. Kind of evil make me wanna grab my submachine.

You thought you could keep this shit from me? Into the arms of Mr. Rebound -- that alley-cat-coat-wearin' crumbcake, like a matador with his pork sword. You swallow his kids? Lookee here, honey -- you don't need to be coy. Why'd ya do it? What'cha gonna say now? Lift me up, hold me, just like you told me you was gonna do. That's what I thought -- you're pitiful.

I wish I was as mellow as, for instance, Jackson Browne, but "Fountain of Sorrow" my ass, motherfucker. I've lost my equilibrium, my car keys, and my pride. There's only so much wine you can drink in one life, but it will never be enough to save you from the bottom of your glass. I'm glad that you're sorry, but it's too late, baby, now it's too late. Cry me a river. Here's a quarter, call someone who cares.

Wait. Give me my money back, you bitch. And don't forget to give me back my black T-shirt. Take my picture off the wall. Give back my TV. I don't wanna walk around with you. I don't like a thing about your mother and I hate your daddy's guts too. You can tell your dog to bite my leg. I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes -- you'd know what a drag it is to see you. You're just...a fuck. I can't explain it 'cause I think you suck. I'm taking pride in telling you to fuck off and die. Die, die, my darling. Just shut your pretty mouth. Don't call me anymore. And the next time your ass gets horny, go fuck one of your funky-ass friends.

I'd show you everywhere you're wrong but I'm never talking to you again. If the phone doesn't ring, you'll know that it's me.

Loveless,

__________

Dana Adam Shapiro is the codirector of the Oscar-nominated documentary Murderball and the author of The Every Boy (Houghton Mifflin).

Click to page 2 for a complete index of songs referenced in Shapiro's letter.