Funny, intelligent, edgy Voice. Sexy, sly, funky, political Voice. You of the Musto, of the Savage, of the glory of it all.
I think it’s time.
Season finales invade the airwaves; Tyra has deemed one girl the prettiest, Trump has deemed another girl “mogul” and you, you and I, are still an item. But I hate to break it to you Voice–I don’t think it’s going to last. This is our season finale.
Be strong Voice, don’t cry, but I have to tell you the truth.
We can no longer sit together, side by side at Starbucks, tossing ideas back and forth, laughing at the time we slept with a senior citizen, or the time our coworker became a stripper. We can no longer help each other plan wine and cheese parties, carefully selecting which Pinots and Merlots will best complement our crackers and Velveeta.
No, sweet Voice, our paths will no longer pass like two ships sailing aimlessly in the night. We can no longer scan the annals of the Internet for column ideas mere moments before deadline. We can no longer stalk the Australian models that live in this neighborhood, hiding behind dark sunglasses and large potted plants. We can’t follow them home together, knock on their doors and then run away, leaving sweet love mementos for their pretty little heads to decipher.
We cannot stand in line with our light sabers held firmly by our sides, biting our nails and waiting impatiently for Obi-Wan Kenobi to steal our hearts one more time, and contemplating the eerie similarities between George Lucas and Chewbacca.
We can no longer clutch one another as we shed tears during a particularly touching episode of A Wedding Story on TLC, that brilliant foray in programming where obese Texans promise themselves to one another while clutching used tissues and smearing fuchsia lipstick all over each other in heated embraces.
God Bless America, Voice.
We just can’t do this anymore Voice. It’s just . . . well . . . you see, it’s gotten too serious. Too serious, too soon. I’m only 22, after all, still young and really very flexible. There was nothing between us, and suddenly, it was you and I–EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME. We eat together, we bathe together, we even sleep together. And then there’s the sex. All that sex. It’s just too much for me, Voice.
So, Voice, you and I are breaking up. Don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s me. It really is.
I know you’re upset. I know this is hard. I’ve had my heart broken too. Plenty of times. BELIEVE ME. But, you and I can still be friends–if you’ll just let it happen. When I see you, sitting nonchalantly at the entrance of “our” bookstore, can I pick you up and flip through you? Will you come home with me, lie on my bed, and tell me what’s new with you?
Because that’s what breaking up is all about, you see. Still being able to stay together–sort of–until one of us (I hope it’s me) finds someone better, and really, finally moves on. But until then Voice, thanks for the memories. It’s been real.
Did I ever love you?
Oh, Voice. I did, I do. It’s just . . . this is the right thing. For both of us.