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Tuesday, September 16, 2003   |    Fiction

Dear Jen

Dear Jen,

I’m sorry. I know you’re still in a state of shock, but the truth is, we were doomed from the start. For one thing, I’m a winter, you’re a fall. Plus, I never told you this, but several years back, me and Matt went to a psychic medium for kicks, and the gypsy lady warned me that one day I’d be left in emotional ruin by a large-assed Latino. I’d always assumed she was referring to Luis Guzman, but she probably meant you.

But surely you knew there were problems between us. You know I wanted to wait 11 months before divorce, and you only wanted six. We could never agree on music or room temperature or which coast to live on or the correct pronunciation of “vase.” And we didn’t receive blessings from the one person who mattered most: Fred “Rerun” Berry.

I think you’ve changed, Jen. I don’t judge you by the rocks that you got, but you’re no longer Jenny from the Block, no matter what you may sing. Where’s the fly girl I fell in love with? The one who liked to sip Caprisun and eat peanut butter straight from the jar? Now you’re all Crystal and caviar and bitchy. Tell me, where is the love? I think, frankly, your explosive, domineering, diva shtick has lost its charm.

But I guess I’m to blame too. I’m sorry for demanding “more rock, less talk.” And remember all those calls late at night, that either hung up immediately, or sometimes there would be quiet, gentle sobs on the other end? I’m sorry I accused P. Diddy of that. Turns out, it was Kevin Smith.

Perhaps it’s nobody’s fault, really. The stars just weren’t aligned for us, Jen. And the goddamn media. Those fucks are real assholes. Tonight, me and Matt are going to leave flaming bags of poop on the stage door to the Access Hollywood studio. How you like that, Pat O’Brien and Nancy O’Dell, you pompous sons of bitches?!? E!’s Giuliana, you’re next on my shit list, babe. You lousy fuckers. You talentless parasites only exist because of good people like me. You know I won an Oscar? For writing, yet? Let’s see you do that, Mary fucking Hart. People magazine, you fat fucks, how dare you name me Sexiest Man and then two issues later criticize my wardrobe. One day, all you paparazzi will burn in eternal hellfire beside tyrants and rapists and cannibals—

I’m sorry, Jen. I get all wicked pissed at those voyeuristic leeches.

We’ll always have Gigli. Also, Jersey Girl, if it ever makes it out of editing.