Published: April 15, 2010

I am not sorry for writing that play, and

I am not sorry for failing to leave you with

any kind of dignity during its aftermath. But, here. Have

this cigar. See it as a token of my eternal detention, where I am

forced to remember that dirty letter; that dirty letter is always in my hands,

even when it’s not. Have this cigar so you can’t talk when I admit I miss you

without reconsidering how non-sorry I seriously am. Have

this cigar because you can’t have me back. I smoked a whole pack

after I found that dirty letter—way later, way after I forgave you for leaving

me without reason. I read that dirty letter to the sound of my roommate asleep

and the thought of you having sex with someone else after you left my bed and

told me you loved me. “I love you,” you told me. Have this cigar

even though I know you said the same thing to someone else. I know

I meant the same thing to you as someone else, too. I know

I meant nothing to you and that’s what happens when

you marry an actor.

I meant nothing to you. So

I put excerpts of your dirty letter

in my newest play and I’ve felt real

clean ever since. Have this cigar

because it fell in the toilet and

you’re already full of shit.