Dear 'Mats,
Things were pretty
bad when I broke up with you in 1989. You left me holding my ticket stub in the
balcony of the Boston Opera House after one and a half slurry songs (although I
admit your brazen exit through a swarm of pissed off fans in the front lobby
was oddly thrilling).
Maybe I was a little
too eager - some might even say clingy - surreptitiously feeding AA batteries
into my Walkman with money that was meant for Berklee tuition, just so we
could be together. But I had never been stood up like that before. And you
really broke my heart.
Well, it's been 25
years. We're both older, I'm wiser (or at least bitchier) and married to a
native Minnesotan (yes, the fact that he knew (of) you was part of the
attraction).
And, like an old
girlfriend who just has to know,
I shelled out $100 this morning to see you in September. I promise to remain
aloof, too cool for you now, and to keep my iPhone (batteries not required)
securely in my pocket.
I'm hoping you'll
make amends, because I'm certain you feel bad about our last night together.
Maybe you'll at least make it through a complete set this time. Thanks for
giving "us" another chance.
Still love you!
Me
