It’s true. We’re through. I’m taking back all my Graham Greene books. Keep the Ministry CDs; I don’t give a shit. Gimme back my combat boots and I promise I won’t email you anymore. And those letters I wrote you, fucking burn ‘em. Please burn ‘em. From now on, when we pass each other on the street, you and me, we’re strangers.
That’s right. I’m breaking up with you. I just can’t handle the pressure. I mean, what do you expect from me? We don’t have to see each other every fucking day. Don’t you know that absence makes the heart grow fonder? You demand too much of me. Endless words to chew on, endless things to keep you occupied. It’s a drag on my time, my life. You’re just taking too much out of me. I need some time alone for a while, to get back to being just me, you know? I need to rediscover the real Reeves.
Really, it’s not you; it’s me. I’m too much a dilettante to keep this up for long anyway. Your dependence on me is stifling. So I’m setting myself free. Why don’t you find some other stud with a killer blog to blog all night with? That’s really what you want, right?
Look, I’m not trying to be mean. I think you’re great and all, but this relationship, it’s just going nowhere. Aww come on, don’t beat yourself up. Don’t cry [although when your mascara runs like that it’s fucking hot]. It’s not your fault. And who knows, maybe one day things will be different and you and I could be friends.
Like I said, it’s not me, it’s you.
Yeah, it’s true. We’re fucking through.
Ciao, bella.
Reeves [last name redacted] is a writer, editor, actor, historian, philosopher, conspiracy theorist, noted astrophysicist, and proud Brooklynite. He is the author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning self-help book You Suck, I Rule, as well as the almost Pulitzer Prize-winning titles Down with the System, Up with the Peeps!, Kick It!: The Long History of Bad Soccer in America, I Sorta Wish I Was a Brit: Confessions of an Anglophile, and the upcoming Drinkin’ and Joggin’: The Reeves Way to a Better Body. He is the founder of the American Institute of Conspiracy Theory (or is he?), the recipient of fourteen MacArthur Grants, and he doesn’t like cats very much.
Redclay is tired of all the people talking like they are somebody. Redclay is tired of all the little people bitin his ankles. if you want to hear something, you'll want to hear bout Redclay.
ol Redclay is the most famous person is his whole family. he is known and loved in bars crosst the whole blessed country.
people talk Redclay every day, but mostly on saturdays when they are putting their furniture back together.
people talk about Redclay with the same hushed tones as faulkner, fitzgerald, hank bygod williams, and people who've got beer on sunday, and know bettern to answer the door.
they know Redclay from such stories as
"Redclays got a self-esteem problem, but on him it looks good", "you didn't tell Redclay your husband was a gun-nut", and " play watermelon smilin on the vine one more time, theys still yankees in here".
oh, you lilliputions, standing near the shoulders of giants, you wouldn't recognize genius if Redclay kicked in your back door and runned off with your daughter.
why, Redclay has got more talent is his left little finger than y'all could gather in a year.
and he's right handed.
the new york times once said of Redclay,
"if Redclay, wolfe, faulkner, o'conner, and rostand were to sit by porchlight, sipping bourbon and swapping stories, they'd probably end up beating that poor frenchamn half to death. bunch of damn drunks."
why, Redclay tilts at windmills and takes em.
only a jealous grub, a blind termite would say less of him. Redclay had braces on his teeth when he was young, and with his silver tongue, it sounded like you dropped a box of spoons against em. Redclay never needed bullets, he could talk a coon down into the dogs.
only those whose heads rattle when they shake them would miss the hand of the Lord, would miss the chair at the head of the table that the demi-gods of literature have cleared for Redclay on the strength of such stories as
"why won't these women leave Redclay alone?",
"Redclay has more modesty than you",
and
"you ought to be shamed of yourself, talking bout Redclay like that".
Hmm, yes, well, good luck with all *that*.
Reeves, well done and thanks for keeping Miss Sally's seat warm.
*eyes waistline, considers personal strengths and weaknesses, adds "Drinkin' and Joggin'" to Amazon wish list*
Posted by: Fes at April 19, 2004 09:03 AMthanks dude. and get your ass to the gym, but be sure to smoke up first.
Posted by: death-by-reeves at April 19, 2004 03:26 PMspecial to redclay: pica?
Posted by: death-by-reeves at April 19, 2004 03:28 PMspacial to baitfish reeves:
hell, yes.
i seen what y'all eat up there.
you ain't got a lotta room to talk.
hey, i'm a southna too! and the food there is much much better, albeit absolutely deadly. you ever gotten indigestion from a big-ass plate of fried catfish and hushpuppies? good god that's some pain...
Posted by: reeves-ya'll at April 22, 2004 10:24 AMthere is a church here. it is yeller and gold and red and blue and prepull and uranch.a temple to the Lord, and they use every crayon in the box. it is a beacon in a bad neighborhood.
6 days a week, they serve fried. chicken and pork chops, turkey and okra. biscuits, too, and cornbread, collards, green beans, field peas and limas.they have 4 kinds of nanner puddin, and 2 kinds of peecan pie. sweet tea by the gallon, and sweet ptatoes by the ton.
almost makes me want to be a baptiss.
Reeves, this is your Mother - stop using those bad words, son. I thought I raised you to be a good southern boy. I don't think I will 'Google' your name anymore.... love, mom
Posted by: jaynee at April 30, 2004 01:50 PMoy! mi madre es muy pissed! (yeah, that's my mom)
Posted by: they're-grrrrrreeves at April 30, 2004 02:19 PM