I am Y.P.R.'s Boring Logo
Fun, Fickle Fiction (for Free!) Fact, Opinion, Essay, & Review Spectacular Features, Calendrical Happenings, Media Gadflies Poetry & Lyric Advice, How To, & Self-Help Listicles Semi-Frequent Columns Correspondence (Letters To and Letters From) Interviews The Book Club Letter from the Editors Disquieting Modern Trends Birthday Cards to Celebrities New & Noteworthy The Y.P.aRt Gallery Et Cetera, Et Cetera, Et Cetera The Y.P.aRchives Submit
supportbar.jpg Bea!
  Creative Commons License
This journal is licensed under a Creative Commons License and powered by Movable Typo 3.15.
Y.P.R. & Co.
The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Monday, September 17, 2007   |    Fiction

A Letter to Alan from Ted


I won’t bother calling you dear because you’re not. You’re a bastard. I’ve taken my negligible possessions and moved into the Plaza. Incidentally, your credit card is on its way back to you in the mail. I have you to thank for a wildly enjoyable evening. I haven’t had beluga since my days scamming randy old men at the Waldorf.

I know I’ve had my moments, but your behavior at William’s bachelor party was way over the line. Even he was upset that you grabbed the best man’s ass. And I saw absolutely no reciprocation. He couldn’t have been any straighter if he’d had a washline shoved up his Underoos as a child. So what the hell were you thinking? And more to the point, why would you betray me like that? Everyone was whispering, “What’s going on with Alan and Ted?” I’m sure they’re still gossiping. Do you know how that hurts me?

I suppose you’re annoyed because I haven’t found a job yet. Fine. You feel you work so I can play all day. Maybe you think I spend too much (I’m sorry, but those Vittorio and Rolf dress sneakers were absolutely necessary to my continued happiness and well-being). Maybe you think you’re sacrificing too much for me. Well, don’t talk to me about sacrifice! Who cuts your mother’s meat at our dinner parties so that she does not, in her drunken state, launch her silverware across the table at our guests? (And who—who?, I ask—invites their elderly inebriate forebear to a Saturday night Luscious-Lavenders dinner party? Can’t you do anything without maternal approval?) And, may I remind you that I was the one who paid to clean your mother’s wig after she fell and spilled Campari on the crown. If she wouldn’t insist on being Frosty Blonde #38, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe a quick swish under the faucet and a moment or two with the diffuser and a spiral brush would have done it. But I cared enough to make it right, to spare her dignity. And on a Saturday when I could have been sunning myself and reading Aldo Alvarez (genius!). Even your mother said I was a better son than you are and shouldn’t my mother be pleased with me. You can say she was drunk. But she meant it. Those big, watery, hyperthyroid-plagued eyes weren’t lying.

Finally, think, Alan. Who does your laundry? Who gets the stains out of your underwear? Did you even think about that? That, Alan, is glove work. But I don’t wear gloves because that’s what love is about. I would ruin my manicure scraping your stains, but apparently, you don’t give a damn anymore.

I hope you’re happy, Alan. Good luck getting another man who will do your laundry.

Hope you rot in hell,

Savannah Schroll Guz writes book reviews for several publications, is part of the Hobart Web-editing team, and a member of the So New Publishing editorial board. Find her world, soundtrack included, at