Monday, August 12, 2002
( 9:20 PM ) Rebecca
One day I’m going to be a famous writer and every boy who’s ever wronged me is going to regret it. There’ll I’ll be on the back of my book, gazing out at the world with soft yet cynical brown eyes, my long hair just the slightest bit windblown, looking unbearably brilliant, beautiful, and rich.
Trying to escape from their own sordid lives, which will have sadly gone to hell since they dumped me, they will stumble upon my fame and fortune in a variety of painful ways.
There is Josh, for example, the rock-climbing counselor I met at summer camp the summer I was 22, who effectively ended my childhood by breaking my heart open like a piñata and leaving the candy to rot in the sun.
Josh will be killing time in his squalid apartment one afternoon, before heading off to his janitorial job, and, quite by accident, will see me appear on “Oprah.” I will be there with my soulmate Johnny Depp, and we will be sharing innermost feelings about being madly in love with someone as brilliant, beautiful, and rich as ourselves.
Though we haven’t talked in more than ten years, and there is no possible way he could have found my unlisted phone number, Josh will call me at two in the morning at the Montana ranch where Johnny and I spend our time when not in Los Angeles or New York, and tell me how he loves me still and that if I could just forgive him for dumping me like a carton of spoiled milk, he would follow me to the ends of the earth.
There will be silence for a moment, and I will stretch it out, because how many times have I hoped to hear him say this? And then,
And then I will hang up. I will go back to sleep with no regrets and Josh will never haunt my dreams again, where he had a habit of showing up to cast a shadow of loss just when everything was going wrong.
My bold proclamation will break Josh’s heart so completely that he’ll never be able to love again. Instead, he’ll spend the rest of his days as a Unabomber-style hermit, venturing into civilization only to buy each of my novels as they come out. Josh will spend the next two years in his dilapidated shack, staring grief-stricken at my smiling photo on the book jacket, until the next novel comes out, with an even more glamorous photo. He will read each book obsessively, over and over again, searching for references to him as the one great love of my life.
But they won’t be there, of course.
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