You’ve been on tour for 4 days. I’ve read Side Effects by Woody Allen, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and The Neon Bible. I listened to the new AIR album 8 times and still can’t get into it. I heard all the voices in the background during every call, while the line on my end just echoed some shitty Gorilla vs. Bear band—that I will probably end of loving.

I was mad when I got The Break Up in the Netflix envelope. I can’t believe you hacked my netflix account in order to make sure that I don’t watch Devo: The Complete Truth About De-evolution without you. The Lake House has mysteriously found its way as #3 on my queue list behind Employee of the Month and The Last Kiss. Fuck off! Thanks to you-- I might never get Zach Galifniakis’ new DVD or Sherrybaby starring Maggie Gyllenhaal. In your honor I put in Secretary with Ms. Gyllehaul and got myself off 3 times in the first 40 minutes.

When you get home I want you to walk through the door smelling like road trips and whisky. Turn up the speakers and play me the new Wilco album while I’m still sleeping and then climb in to bed and put your hand inside me. Fuck me back and forth with your fingers until I start to suck your dick to the sounds of Jeff Tweedy echoing in my Art Noveau/Flea Market studio. An hour later we will make vegan breakfast and then sleep for 3 days straight.