Dear Tommy,

    Hon, you once told me that we’d make it, you swore it to me. I told you that it didn’t matter if we make it or not. We were going to hold on to our love, because it was all we had. Well sweetie, times change.

 I was content back then because we had each other. That was alright then, but after all these years how about a little help with the bills? Would it kill you to wash a dish for chrissakes. I’ve got an idea! How about you get a fucking job!

     Frankly, Tommy I’m sick of hearing about how tough you’ve had it since you were laid off from the docks. Look, you haven’t worked in years. And stop trying to blame the unions. Anytime there’s an opening down at the docks, they mysteriously go on “strike.”

I know what you do with your day, I know you spend most of your day down at the bar telling anyone who will listen that you’re livin’ on a prayer, that you’re gonna get your guitar out of hock, and that you’re gonna “make it”.

I call bullshit; you’ve been living off my goddamn tips that’s what you’ve been livin’ off of. I work my ass off at that diner, and what do I get when I get home? A half drunk, overweight, out of work husband who spends hours playing ‘Guitar Hero,” reliving his glory days (speaking of which, and I’m saying this for your own good, out of love, really: I think it’s time you get rid of those acid washed jeans and cut that fucking mullet. Jesus Christ Tommy, who tight rolls their pants anymore?)

    I just can’t hold on to this toxic relationship anymore, and prayer isn’t helping (not with this economy!) So I’m leaving you Tommy. We gave it a shot and it didn’t work out. I’m pushing 45 hon, and I’ll be damned if I'm gonna spend the rest of my life wasting away in south Jersey with a fat, lazy, nogoodnik for a husband.

So, I’m moving out to California. Remember your Cousin Jon’s guitar playing friend? Ritchie? Yeah, well he’s single now, his guitar ain’t in hock, and he’s offering me a place to stay.

Good luck to you sweetie. Really. I mean that.

All the best,

Gina