Seventeen

Dear Lana,

My bad. I know it. You know it. We both know it. Everybody fucking knows it. My shitiness is a thing of legend, okay. Great. Good deal. In my defense, though, I told you distance wasn’t my thing. You asked me if we could do it and I didn’t beat around the bush or anything, so let’s not pretend like anybody got blindsided here. Was it tactful? Not in the remotest sense. Was I justified in it all? Who am I say? You’re the smart one. But, when your girl calls me in up at two in the morning shouting like it’s the fucking Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and I call smell the alcohol through the phone, I think it’s getting a little out of hand.

You want sorry? Here’s sorry: Sorry for flying to Spain and not texting you for the entire two weeks. Sorry I saw you at Flags at one in the morning and all I did was wave. Sorry I never got the Kearney CD to you. Sorry I didn’t drink that Jack with you. Sorry I told you you were pretty and I meant it. Sorry I didn’t choke you with that word. Sorry I was seventeen.

You're married now.