I wish she'd forgive me. Or at least forget. I still can't believe I did it -- leaving her on my forty-eighth birthday for my law partner's daughter. Life sucks and I've been such a stupid stereotype, haven’t I been? The middle-aged selfish yuppy driving a Porsche convertible, paying alimony to a long-suffering wife of twenty-five years, one child out of college in her own career, another in college, and a third in high school, all the while having sex five times a week with the twenty-three year old blonde Tiffany whose ambition in life is to appear on Housewives of L.A. on Bravo. Moving out of my home in Brentwood and into a Hollywood Hills condo, Eric Roberts living across the street and Kathy Griffin down the road, every moment of the day I wasn't off getting divorces for bitter Pasadena housewives, I was getting off with Tiffany in our upstairs bedroom overlooking Capital City Records.
How'd I know that it wouldn't work with Tiffany? How'd I know she'd divorce me for her tennis instructor, they'd go off to Santa Barbara, and she'd get all my income? How'd I know her father would close down the firm? How'd I know I'd have to file for bankruptcy, no longer able to pay alimony, no longer able to pay for my children's college educations, no longer able to even pay for my rented apartment next to the La Brea tarpits. That's where I've been ... now, nearly twenty years, living in a one-bedroom apartment across the street from the tarpits, seventy-three years old and alone.
There's Colleen, seventy-three years old, divorced now twenty-five years, walking dogs to make ends meet, carrying a large white plastic bag she used for doggy poop bags whether empty or filled. She doesn't know I'm walking behind her, just a few feet, yearning for the years before I left her, wishing there’d been someone who could've slapped me out of my idiotic mid-life crisis.
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