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Hen,
A few hours ago, I managed to get into a stash of 4LOKO even though I’m pretty certain they’ve been banned in the US. I’m still fucking juiced up rn, like BAD. So don’t get on my ass, grammar police. I’m trying my best (and autocorrect is helping my mistakes).
I saw you on a magazine today. One of the dumb ones with a ridiculous name like “The Star” or “The Horny Goat”, or something of the sort. You looked tired, sweetheart. Real tired. Even on the damn paper. Either you need to fire whoever applied your makeup like shit or you are truly, deeply exhausted.
If it’s the latter then I’m gonna be real fucking pissed, Sweetheart. Why didn’t you call me? Or email? Or text? Or send a fucking carrier pigeon? Don’t you know us insomniacs need to stick together? It’s pretty fucked of me to use you as an endless idea pool when I’m up in the depths of the evening and you don’t return the favor. Baby, I wanna pluck your beaten-down brain. What does sleep deprived Henry think of my abs? I gotta know. (I know I already to, undoubtedly but hey.)
Okay, I’ll try to bore you with this one so you can sleep. Here’s a story from today: WASPY Hunter forced me into holding a conversation with him for like half an hour. I had to listen to him talk about his frat brothers? And his new “situationship” and her family house in Nantucket. He’s not even trying to be friendly he’s trying to make me jealous. Why would I be jealous of him? God, he’s so strange. Save me please. I need like a safe word that deploys the secret service like attack dogs.
I’m trying to spare you the details of how excruciatingly boring the conversation was. For both of our sakes.
Do me a solid and next time you’re a fucking sleepless zombie, give me a call. I always have time for you.
Yours (and about to crash from the 4LOKO),
A