I Love You, I Love the 90s, but I’m Not in Love with You
There are so many things about you worth loving.
Here, hold my hand while I say this. I need a little strength.
First of all, you’re super funny. You never really stop with the jokes, do you? Hour after hour, minute after minute, you’re constantly breaking down those pop-culture references. I can’t stop laughing when I’m with you, as much as I’d like to try. (It’s true, it did bother me when I said I’d like to get serious for a moment, and you said, “Well then why don’t you try Lifetime instead?” But maybe I needed to be put in my place.)
Plus you’re clearly brilliant—what an impeccable memory you have for the cultural details and events of the last decade. I’m certain that’s a quality that will take you far in this world. Perhaps you could find your fame and fortune on Jeopardy!
And I know that you’re stable and dependable, that I could count on you for years to come. You’ve always been around when I needed you (your repeat schedule is like clockwork), and, to be honest, even when I didn’t know I needed you at all.
But I’m never going to love you like you love me. Oh, I don’t know—maybe I’m just not ready for something serious right now. Maybe I’m not mature enough to handle your capacity for wide-ranging reflection and sentimentality. Clearly it’s me, not you.
So I’m going to Vegas with Best Week Ever. Yes, I know he’s capricious, and ever-changing, and he’s got new issues every week. But his spontaneity makes me laugh like a carefree little girl, and he’s not so studied or meticulous, not obsessive like some people. Best Week Ever lives in the moment, while you, I Love the 90s, live in the past.
Plus he’s got a huge cock.
