We’re breaking up.
Sorry to drop a bomb like that, but this morning someone I trust pointed out that I’ve been hanging around with you for far too long. You’ve been like a partner in crime, except you are the crime.
Last night I met a girlfriend for drinks and to talk about an improv show we’d like to do together. Ok, so I had three cocktails, and we devoured a cheese tray. I should have left another one of the little toasts for her but I was drunk so I ate it. I also ate what was probably more than my share of the cheese and some of the little figs and marcona almonds.
This wouldn’t be a problem except that my pants have been feeling tight and I’m already two sizes larger than I was before I had Ali, which if anyone’s counting was two and a half years ago.
You walk around with me constantly, Guilt — nagging me, telling me I should have lost all that weight by now. And after I drink — not one cocktail, but two, or certainly three, you’re there to tell me that I shouldn’t have done it.
As I look back over our relationship, it seems like you basically chastise me whenever I let myself lose control. I’m screwing up my courage and I’m telling you: I think it’s ok to let yourself lose control sometimes. In fact, I think it’s essential.
And you aren’t just after me about tight waistbands and intoxicated states. Whenever I think anything but grateful thoughts for my daughter, there you are. And I’ve been talking to other women, Guilt, and they say you’re bugging them, too, and after a while, I’ve gotta wonder: What’s your angle?
What do you get from all this?
I think you must want to make me feel really shitty.
Which is why it’s high time I kicked you to the curb.
Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.
…Oh, and for Chrissakes, don’t just go running to the Catholics — they’ve had enough of you. The Jews, too, and the moms. Leave all of us alone. Go on a walkabout or something, and get your shit together. We’re sick of it.
I’m telling Taylor Swift to write a song about you.