It wasn’t the sex. You were great in the sack. Even if it was a little weird—a little grandfatherly, maybe—when you folded your pants before getting into bed.
And I didn’t even mind too much when you did that thing where you’d say wait, how old were you when Reagan got shot? although the exaggerated shock that followed got tiresome after a while.
I was negative three. You were twelve. Get over it.
But you couldn’t.
That wasn’t it, though. And it wasn’t that you talked about how if you’d taken me to your senior prom you would have been arrested, although ewww.
No, it was mostly that I got tired of playing classic rock trivia. I don’t know who Ted Nugent is. I don’t know who Jethro Tull is. I don’t know who Boston is. Are. Whatever. No amount of saying c’mon, they’re the toxic twins! is going to make me remember that Aerosmith sings Sweet Emotion.
Maybe if you hadn’t laughed at me all those times I mistook Led Zeppelin for Jimi Hendrix—the hard edge coming into your voice in these last few months—you’d be having sex with me and my tight, unblemished body right now, instead of reading this note.
Good luck with middle age, asshole.
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Between ‘Professor Dan Deever’ and ‘Dear John,’ I laughed so hard that I just about snorted my entire mug of Trader Joe’s orange-banana-mango juice straight through my nose and into my brain. My meninges now smell like mango and it’s all your fault.