Dear Saw,
Darling sweet. This isn’t you, babysaw. You’re so sexy and beautiful, and god I wish I could have you again. Every time I look at your Meta Threads profile photo, I am transported back through time to when you and I first met.
At that industrial machinery-themed sober bar, I thought there would be nothing there for me. My mocktail had the flavor profile of a La Croix if it were crushed under the tire of a speeding truck toting bales of lavender. I looked around at the patrons and was embarrassed to be there. I was only in attendance with some of my other onomatopoetic friends, Zip and Squish. They were off in the corner canoodling over some wine-less wine spritzes, cooing about the resonance of rotten oranges and zippers. I attempted a feeble exchange with a genderqueer screwdriver with a bad haircut; they had fallen susceptible to TikTok lesbian lifestyle influencers that seemed to have a unitarian attitude towards wolf cuts with swooped bangs. I could only stand so much conversation about handmade jewelry crafted from pubic hair before I needed to escape.
In the hall by the bathroom, there was terrible art, the kind that makes you go “yeah, I guess that’s why they’re trying to sell it here in this slightly bohemian establishment and not an art gallery.” It was a Warhol-esque attempt at a portrait of either Kathy Griffin or Lois Griffin; the only clue was the subtitle: “Griffin.” I was chuckling to myself about it and went to lean on the wall, only to find myself bumping into a person behind me. And that person was you. We fumbled awkwardly, and all these years later, I can’t remember what we said. Was it some prophetic line that would sting me now, fortelling our eventual romantic demise? Probably not. I romanticise my first glance in your eye. Your shining blades. You complimented my jagged vibrational pattern, and I blushed.
Between the tears, our life goes by in flashes: In late-night car rides, in afternoon ice cream binges, in verbal beratings of close friends over board game rules none of us had bothered to read, in passive aggressive Venmo requests, in long passionate kisses in public that made nearby construction workers wolf whistle like Bugs Bunny in a Loony Tune. When I close my eyes, I see my hand softly launched on your Instagram story. It was so nonchalant and noncommittal, I admit it turned me on.
I always find myself jump-cutting to our wedding. I am painted up in layers of foundation thicker than the record of Jeffree Star’s various cancellations. My eyeshadow is Ke$ha-tastic, and my dress is giving slutty meets 80’s prom meets Generic Princess. The train is so long that it can comfortably function as a banquet tablecloth for approximately fifteen medium to large-sized Vikings. My bridesmaids are in cunty little orange cocktail dresses that almost show their hoo-has but not quite. I will NOT tell you what occurred on our Bachelorette weekend, because what happens in Grand Rapids, Michigan, stays in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
My mother, Fizz, and father, Oom-pah, are in attendance. They have bankrolled the entire wedding, for which I am grateful, because renting out entire Cheesecake Factories on weekends during the summer is very difficult. My procession down the sidewalk of this outlet mall is grandiose. The organist on the electric keyboard (there is a shortage of outlet malls with operational pipe organs) plays a gorgeous rendition of the Pussycat Dolls’ 2005 hit single “Don’t Cha.” Our wedding cake is a tri-layer masterpiece at forty inches tall; the first layer is Very Cherry Ghiradelli® Chocolate Cheesecake, the second layer is Ultimate Red Velvet Cake Cheesecake™, and the third layer is Low-Licious Cheesecake with Strawberries (low carb, no sugar added and gluten free) because I’m trying to slim down for the honeymoon. After my twelfth SkinnyLicious Margarita, we take to the floor. My spouse and I, ready to Cupid Shuffle until dawn. We make out on the dance floor with a majority of tongue for exactly seven minutes: one-point-three “I Gotta Feeling”s to be exact.
I will never get that back. And you’re going to say, “Buzz, you hardly mentioned me while describing our wedding, you skipped directly to the reception, plus you mention Cheesecake Factory branded items by name at least four times.” I will say, so what, Saw? Our courtship was beautiful and average. Remember the good times, not the times we argued over whether it’s okay to tie-dye all of our undergarments because it reminds me of summer camp, or the times when I drunkenly thought I could operate heavy machinery and maimed multiple innocent bystanders with a forklift at Costco.
All you need to know is that when I sit here writing this, drinking my coffee with Kirkland Brand Vodka, I am thinking of you always. You, but also the Cheesecake Factory. <3
Love,
Buzz
Connor Stanford is a senior theatre studies major who has the Cheesecake Factory menu memorized. You can reach Connor at [email protected].