Dear Buzz,
Things have changed since we last spoke. I received your letter. It’s a reminder of the few sweet moments we had together, but also of your radical delusion. There is so much in our marriage that went awry. You have broken completely from reality, and I’m scared for your mental health. Do you not remember being served divorce papers, and then subsequently crashing your lime green Kia Soul into an Edible Arrangements storefront? Perhaps your dependency on Kirkland Brand vodka has gotten to you.
We had some good times when we were young, but you always pushed me around. You set up that miniature basketball hoop, and whenever we’d finish having sex, you’d immediately jump out of bed and dunk the ball, yelling “KOBE.” You dunked over my head all the time, which caused me to slip on the floor right after a shower and suffer severe concussions at least three separate times. You started playing HORSE with yourself when we had friends over, and you smashed wine glasses if anyone tried to take the ball from you. It’s inexcusable.
Whenever I tried to sit down with you to discuss my feelings, you’d always say, “I know you are, but what am I?” Even when I got to the end of my rope and starting crying you would caress my shoulder softly and go “Is this because I fucked your mom?” It’s not cool to leave empty Gatorade bottles around, either. I even found cum stained shirts a few times, which is concerning, because neither of us have genitals due to the fact you’re a sound and I’m an actual saw blade. When I confronted you about possibly cheating on me, you repeatedly said “nuh uh” and stuck your fingers in your ears.
The reasons I thought you were fun, in reality, were red flags I ignored for too long. You know I always go by my surname, “Saw,” and never my first name, “Circular.” It was charming for a bit in a manic pixie way, but after a point, it becomes disrespectful. We both loved to party, especially doing gimmick dances like the Macarena and Cupid Shuffle, but your drinking is so strange. I don’t understand why you insist on buying so much alcohol, you can’t even consume it or get drunk because you are made up of vibrating air waves. I love to go out to eat as much as the next power tool, but there are only so many times I can go to the Cheesecake Factory. I don’t think I’ll ever financially recover from it.
It’s clear from your letter that you never really saw me for me. You disregarded my passion for Bukowski, and you blew off every single one of my poetry readings. I liked to explore my artistic side when I wasn’t on the clock, cutting apart various materials. You always scrolled on your phone when I tried to show you my favorite movies (Saw through Saw X). When I was on aux, you called everything I played “girl music” and put on Pearl Jam. You never acknowledged my journey of sobriety and always waved whiskey sours in front of my face like a hypnotist and said, “Ooh, you want to get hammered reeeeaaaaaal baaaaaad.”
Look, Buzz. I have to get something off my chest before I sever contact forever. The truth of the divorce is that I never should have gone through with getting married to you. While you were in Grand Rapids, me and my guys were getting lit at Great Wolf Lodge, something happened that changed my perspective. Between the magiquest and kicking preteens off the waterslides, lines were crossed. You know my high school buddy, Orbital Grinder. We were close friends for a long time, poetry club, and biking around town with nothing to do. After how you treated me when we lived together, it felt too good to talk to someone who understood my feelings. And you know how I get after a couple of Pacific Cooler Capri-Suns. As it turns out, we kissed and fell asleep in the same log cabin-themed bunk bed together. But the strange thing was, I didn’t regret it. It felt good.
You asked where I was going to stay when I moved out temporarily. I have stayed with Orbital Grinder, and life has never been so good. I’ve never felt so seen, and my sex life has never been so fulfilling. I’ve tried poppers. We go to slam poetry together and listen to Beabadoobee. We’re both sober again, and we keep a decorative jar of our AA chips on the mantle. I knew he cared when he bought me new underwear to replace the ones you tie-dyed. It’s early days, but I have a really good feeling about this. About where this is taking me.
I hope that this doesn’t hurt you or cause you to drive another forklift into a crowd. I only want what’s best for you, and best for me. And I think right now we can’t be together. Thank you for being my first spouse. I hope you forgive me. Enclosed is a $50 gift card to the Cheesecake Factory. If lost, please don’t harass the mailwoman again, she’s been through enough.
-Saw
Connor Stanford is a senior Theatre Studies major hoping for his own homoerotic experience at The Great Wolf Lodge. You can reach Connor at [email protected].