Dear Sally,

The nights of sitting at home alone, eating all of your leftover bits and pieces are over. I can’t go on doing that.

Today I was walking down Broadway, just wandering around under the shadows of the old theaters. Latin music blared into the street from the stores that spilled out into the side walk. I walked by Clifton’s but I didn’t go in. I wasn’t hungry.

I was thinking about you as I passed the Orpheum. I remembered our first concert together. We had nosebleed seats but we still danced and sang our hearts out.

The thought that crossed my mind was, “That was a good time.” And I realized that I’m young and that there is no reason for me to wallow in my misery, playing the part of the sad, forsaken lover. There’s a point when we’re really mourning and grieving and processing, and then there comes a point where we just milk the emotions out of habit. I decided to stop squeezing that udder.

So I’m going out tonight. Some girl’s going to buy me a drink. Maybe more than one. And I’m going to have a great fucking time.

Fuck it.