Dear Kissinger,
I had that dream again.
It’s always the same. I’m having sex with Cindy — her on top, of course, with the dog collar and the riding crop and all — when I notice a silhouette in the doorway. It my ex-wife, Carol. She’s leaning against the door jamb, just sort of shaking her head sadly. Then I wake up (and always just before my dream “goes wet,” goddammit).
The weird thing is, I actually get angry with her. I know it’s just a dream. And in truth, Carol has been incredibly kind to me (especially given the circumstances). She’s let me be. She’s even been quiet around reporters to protect me. That notwithstanding, I really had to fight the urge this morning to pick up the phone, dial her and scream:
“Why can’t you just leave me alone already?! Yeah, yeah, you waited for me all those years I was detained in Vietnam. You raised our children and consoled them through that cruel duration of worry and grief. And when I finally came home...yes, okay, sorry, I fucked around. A lot. For five straight years, with any random piece of tail I could grab. And eventually, yes, I left you and the kids to run off and marry a cheerleader named Cindy who was 18 years younger and heiress to a $340 million company. But still. Do you, like, have to fuck up every good sex dream I’ll ever have for the rest of my life?!”
It just gets me thinking, Hank. I don’t have many years left on this earth. I’m coming up on 72, for Chrissakes. That’s old. Will I ever lose this monkey on my back?
God bless America,
John
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