Dearest Dear Blue Velvet,
I am writing to request a dose of that sage advice you're always bragging about having. I blame my recent addiction to scrambled eggs with cheese and sage for this desire. That and Heath Ledger, whose woulda been restaurant in Greenpoint fed me said eggs. RIP, dude. [Editor's note: Did I ever tell you people my Heath Ledger joke that I told for a week after he became dead? No? OMG! Did you hear about what happened to the accounting department at work!? They lost a ledger last week!!!]
More so, though, I'm writing because my one true love left me this week and I don't know what to do about it. We were two lost ships without navigation lights (or docking lights, depending on the boat. Amiright?!?), floating down the river, away from one another, for thirteen years. Then one miraculous day (a year ago in three weeks, actually), our boats bumped into one another (in the biblical sense) in the romance capital of New England: Attleboro, MA. Since then, I moved to New York to be with him, and to my dismay, even though things were going beautifully, he decided to up and move to Los Angeles: City of Bikini Sluts, for the summer. That's okay, right?
But then "summer" turned to "September" and we now stand to either be apart for six months or forever (if he "gets a job on something amazing") and I'm not sure what to do. My friends all say he's not the type of guy who'll fall victim to the wiles of the orange whores in their two-pieces - but what if he does?! Or, what if he finds someone who isn't in a bikini at all, and instead, is smart and funny and wears real clothes???
Do I trust him, even though we've been sexing for nearly a year and yet don't call each other B- and G-words? Nor have we said the L-word? All these questions seem too stupid to even ask, but I'm hoping some of your infinite relationship wisdom can help guide me in the right direction.
Forever in middle school,
Ship Storm
Dearest Ship Storm,
Your situation reminds me of the time when I worked at the MAC counter with a black, ghetto-chick-done-well, Annette, (or as her other, non-white friends would call her, but she would never let me call her: 'Net). Anyway, 'Net and I worked together for about four years and we became quite close. We were both Virgos! She confessed to me that she banged Mike Tyson in the ' 80s--with photographic evidence to prove it! She told me that I was the only white girl she ever met who could do black girls' makeup the right way. You know, without making them look all ashy and shit. I admitted to her that she was the black, ghetto-ass, older sister I never had. BFF!
Let's face it, you can take a girl out of the projects, but you can never take the projects out of the girl. She took too many "bafroom" breaks, "aks'ed" a lot of questions, and sipped on too much grape drank in our years together for me to ever forget from which side of the train tracks she called home.
'Net and I got along famously for most of our friendship. Sadly, as with most relationships, we had a disagreement. Let me preface this with the fact that 'Net, with the exception of me, was highly suspect of white folk in general. One day I aksed (!) her if she would ever bang a white dude. She was all, "Oh hell no! White people smell like wet dogs to me!"
Seriously? I wondered. After about five minutes of chuckling, I said, "What the fuck! I always thought that black people were the ones who smelled like wet dogs!"
"Oh no, girl. It's white people!"
"Oh no you didn't! Black people smell like wet dogs, not white people!"
The vacillating went on and on and on until our shift ended and we drifted towards our respective cars parked in the Macy's parking lot. The next time we worked together we decided that we would never agree on which race reeked of wet dogs, so we agreed to disagree. I think the whole debacle brought us closer as two friends of different races. Since I have a blog and she doesn't, I am going to go on record to say that white people do not smell like wet dogs, the end, no backs, infinity.
Wow. Just Wow. Apparently I wrote all of the preceding stuff last night after I drank an entire bottle of $4.49 "Merlot" that I bought at Seven Eleven. One would suppose that drinking such an elixir would incite a few hallucinations or drunk dials. All I did was post a lowbrow Facebook status update, wrote most of this response and murdered a homeless person.
So, you want to know what you should do about a dude you love who moved a couple thousand miles away from you or something like that? I would say, break up with him, but since he's not your "B" and you aren't his "G" and you've never said "L", then I guess you really can't break up with someone you weren't ever dating. My advice is that you get some of this wine I had last night and see where the night takes you. Also, since you are free for the summer, you should be my merch girl on my comedy tour taking place in June.
Love,
Blue Velvet