Dear Mr. Rapper

Dear Mr. Rapper,

I’m writing you this personal letter to thank you, Mr. Rapper, for so graciously f*cking my b*tch. I didn’t really know Jackie and I were having relationship troubles until you swooped her into your gun-toting, massive-metric-quantities-of-narcotics dealing arms that night two weeks ago in Club Ecstasy. Your swooping was made all the easier due to Jackie’s being on actual ecstasy, to take partial credit away from you and your glistening, diamond-encrusted 2.5 inch Cuban Links. Your swagger and devil-may-care attitude can have 56% of the seduction’s credit, those two purple Batmans Jackie took can have 14%, and my $31,000 a year salary in combination with periodic anxiety-induced ED can have the other 30%. I really did think, Mr. Rapper, that Jackie was the one. Not “The One” one, but the one I could have a messy divorce with after six-or-so years of marriage, a divorce where she’d take me for the rights to parent our only child and the rest of all the little I’m worth. I would’ve gone through with that marriage willingly, but you saved me from disrespecting myself on purpose. For that I thank you from the bottom of my fast-beating heart.

In all honesty, I guess I did have worries over Jackie leaving me. The worries hadn’t started for real until she refused to stop checking her phone during sex. Checking it during conversation was one thing. I know I’m not the best talker. I doubt I’m the best love-maker either, context for this letter considered, but I can get by. Anyway, Jackie using her phone while we f*cked was quite different than the times we’d plan to do it doggy-style to share in, say, a season finale of Modern Family. See, I’d catch her reading Perez Hilton articles literally behind my back when we were in missionary. Then she was scrolling through Facebook after she’d laid her tits on my face when she was on top. I’d caught her many times and I always politely ask her to cut the bullsh*t. And she did. Then, one evening when we were doing it from the side where it’s also like it’s from the back (you know the position), Jackie hadn’t the gentlewoman’s grace to stifle her laughter at Instagram memes. I mean c’mon. At first I thought she was laughing at my go-to thrust rhythm, the quintuple-fast-‘n’-rough-stroke followed by a lingering slow drill with whispers in the ear ranging from “You like that?” to “I’m gonna make you squirt so hard the puddles warp these wood floors.” She was laughing, and I believe she’s allowed to laugh at my stoke pattern, because couples are allowed to get bored of how they f*ck each other. All the same, when I thought Jackie was laughing at me, I froze in the middle of my lingering drill. My ensuing anxiety sucked the life right out of my hard-on. Then, upon seeing Jackie’s iPhone out with that classic Helvetica Neue LT Std 45 Light font heading a picture of Kermit the Frog and his Sith Lord antagonist mirror, my penis re-inflated to full boner from relief alone. It didn’t matter that I was once again ready for action. Jackie outright refused to put her phone down. She said she was busy with something, but that I could finish anyway if I wanted to. Oh, finish I did. T’was a load of the most spiteful sperm I’ve ever come. She still wasn’t done with IG when I pulled out, pulled the condom off, and aimed the nut at her upper back, where her flattened curls were sprawled, waiting to catch jizzum that wouldn’t come out in the first or the second shampoo.

It’s probably unfamiliar to a talented man like yourself, Mr. Rapper, but when you’re me, manager at the Kinko’s on Union Ave, you don’t have much to fall back on in terms of desirability. I’ve put on winter weight that doesn’t come off in the Spring, Summer, or Fall. I’ve most likely reached the peak of my wit, and to my credit I’ve accepted that on most days. But be it sexy or not, I do have pride; pride I’ve compromised many a time for Jackie. Before she met me she’d already used her looks and very short-term charm to cover up her crazy and capture several men rising up the corporate ladder at Deloitte. Then it was some soon-to-be lauded geniuses programming in gestating unicorn apps. She knew how to work it with friends of friends. Those past relationships’ shelf-lives were like avocados’ – she kept those men for only a moment. Flash forward to one and half months in. She’d throw a three-quarters drunk bottle of vodka at the boyfriend for holding a door open when the wrong attractive woman (usually a gal who resembled Jackie’s older sister, Jessica) left Trader Joe’s at the same time they did. I’ve dodged that flying bottle of vodka a couple times. Been hit by it once. It’s now reflex for me to let doors close in the face of any and all brunettes, whether or not Jackie’s around to see it.

I was like one of those guys she first dated, Mr. Rapper. I was promising once. On the outside I had earning potential, and potential is one helluva hook to stick in someone’s heart. That’s when Jackie found me. She was 32, not looking as good as she did at 27, and I was 26, already aware somewhere inside myself that I’d never live up to the early retirement hopes colleagues, superiors, and Aunt Sally had for me. I wanted Jackie in the beginning, but it didn’t take long for our relationship to boil down to this: Jackie stayed with me because I stayed with her after her crazy came out. Then you, Mr. Rapper, seduced her and her ecstasy-sweaty body. That was the final point of pride I couldn’t surrender to Jackie. She could call me a “ketchup-slurping moron” in front of friends at Wendy’s. She could even call up my Mom on a weekly basis to analyze the ways I squandered my gifts of personality and intellect. But Jackie could not cheat on me with a f*cking rapper and expect me to stay. I have snow-capped mountains of gratitude to you for indirectly giving me the courage to kick myself out of my own apartment and leave it to Jackie to live in by herself.

I already knew I didn’t want to die alone, and now I know I definitely don’t want to die next to Jackie, either. You can have her. You probably won’t keep her, as per your hit single “I Won’t Keep Her”, but that’s okay, too. You two probably had a bonerific one night stand, as per your lesser known and radio unfriendly song “Bonerific One Night Stand”, and you know what, I respect that. Living in accordance with the ideals of your art is no tiny task. Please, Mr. Rapper, continue to f*ck other dudes’ b*tches so they can also have the life-altering epiphany that I had. Well, the Jackie-altering epiphany that I had. I’m still going to my shift at Kinko’s today at 3pm. Come by. Union Ave. I’ll give you a discount on stickers or something.

Grateful, single, and grateful to be single,

A fan of your work in the field but not your work in the studio,

Roger [last name omitted]

(NOTE: The above letter was transcribed from its original handwritten copy as part of the evidence extracted from the home of [full name omitted], a.k.a. “Mr. Rapper” [stage name altered to preserve the integrity of an investigation yet to be made public]. Mr. Rapper’s home was raided on the grounds of suspected CDS distribution, after he himself noted his criminal activity in several songs including but not limited to “I Am Your Kids’ Drug Dealer” and “Call Me for the Drugs You Need”. These songs, as well as any applicable evidence found in Mr. Rapper’s domicile, will be used in a court of law to incarcerate this threat to the public’s well-being à la Ra Diggs’ conviction in 2015. Reckless sex with strangers and selling narcotics go hand-in-hand. All rap music is autobiographical non-fiction. – New Jersey State Prosecutor James Rainey.)


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