sturtle [dot] com

Dear Abby:

I know you’re, like, dead and all, but I’ve got this problem, and I don’t know who else to turn to, but I know for a fact that I don’t like the looks of that lady who replaced you, so there’s no way I’m writing to her. I mean, her photo’s airbrushed to within an inch of its life, and really, who can trust a marshmallow with eye sockets? Could you? I never trusted that Doris “Vaseline-on-the-lens-is-in-my-contract” Day, and I’m not about to change my personal policies now.

Anyway, like I said, I’ve got this problem. I’ve been seeing a guy recently–kinda nice, but he could stand to have his ears pinned back. And I think he might be married. But that’s not important. See, about five months ago, there was this thing that happened, and I was in trouble, and the guy rode in on this white horse–a week late, but what the hey?–and rolled up his sleeves and stood in this really flattering light, and with a touch of something bordering on honesty, he said he’d see me through this rough patch. To be honest, I’d known the guy by reputation for years and I’d never really cared for him, but he’s got money and stuff, and I needed money and stuff, so I fell for it.

From the start, our relationship has been rocky. I may not be from Venus, but he’s totally from Mars. We’ve been trying to stay civil, to make it work, but now I’m getting completely mixed signals. One day he tells me he wants to make plans for a future together, so I take him at his word–I map out where I think things should go, I put it all down in writing and hand it over. Then he has the nerve to tell somebody else that I never got back to him with a plan. Um, hello? I called him, I wrote to him, I left messages with his secretary. Does he want me to tattoo it on my forehead? ‘Cause I don’t think I’m willing to go that far….

Then the other day, I was at this thing, and I met this other guy who turned out to be a friend of the guy I’m seeing, and I started talking about our relationship and when I was done, the guy was all, like, “That’s funny. He’s never mentioned you to me.” You could have knocked me over with a swizzle stick. Unbelievable.

So, it’s beginning to feel like the old fear-of-committment routine to me, but what do you think? Should I stick it out until one night Miss Beatrice down the hall hears shouting at my place, and the police show up and break down the door and find me dead, lying in a pool of my own blood, having been shot in the back of the head and partially cannibalized? Or should just I forget the guy and move on?

Sincerely,
Found, Fucked, and Forgotten on the Flood Plain