Dear My Long Distance Relationship:
I’m now shaving my legs for Skype. I shave my legs and moisturize with that stuff they give out at the mall with little flecks of 24K gold in it. Golden lotion. Lotion of the ambrosial gods. I doubt the pixelated version of me that you carry across the ocean even shows how exfoliated and fucking GLOWING my thighs are but I do it just the same. This makes me awesome, Long Distance Relationship. So then why must you taunt me so?
You are nothing like N*Sync’s Digital Get Down, nor do you resemble a Nicholas Sparks novel, or even that Sandra Bullock movie where she gets old letters from Keanu Reeves in her mailbox. You are, in fact, an asshole.
I’ve known people just like you, Long Distance Relationship. You are not well-liked, though your co-workers keep inviting you to trivia night because, whatever, it’s just one night, she’s not that bad. And then you convince the whole team to blow their 60-POINT LEAD because you have a hunch on the finer points of Edwardian literature. That’s you, whore.
You drop calls, you dick around with time zones—do you have any IDEA how hard it is to seductively crawl around your bed in lingerie, arch your back, AND maintain deep, emotional eye contact with your partner through a web cam several oceans away? Do you? Do you understand the soul-crushing, homicidal rage one experiences after dozens of strained …can you hear me’s result in yet another dropped call?
Through your geographical mind fuck, you’ve somehow made it possible to know all of the hopes, tawdry fantasies, and ambitions of this one charming individual. Yet I still have no idea if he holds hands in a crowd, when he prefers his showers, or how he likes his eggs. (For the record: I do; in the morning; and my eggs are over-easy, yolks just runny enough to form an all-encompassing coating on a side of wheat toast.) For all I know, he could be one of those sacrilegious breakfasters who likes his eggs over-hard. EXPLAIN TO ME THE POINT OF AN OVER-HARD EGG, LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP!
However, your slow-and-steady-wins-the-race approach to romance seems to be working and the threat of heathen eggs bothers me only as much as Beyoncé lip-syncing the National Anthem. It’s disappointing but totally fine if it means I can finally bask in the warm glow of otherworldly excellence.
And you know what really gets me, Long Distance Relationship, you cruel, cruel mistress? You’ve given all of this pining and wanton witticisms and overwrought metaphor a worthy cause. I’m smitten, you bitch. How on earth did you know about my love of beards and broad shoulders and verbose talent? Or my dream of one day finding someone who could nail the background vocals for Sisqo’s “Thong Song”? How did you know I’ve been waiting to share a wavelength like this since Pacey finally kissed Joey and my parents made me watch An American in Paris? And how the FUCK did you know I like hipsters with half smiles? Because even I didn’t know that.
In summary, I hate you, Long Distance Relationship. But I’ll keep writing emails, over-editing my texts, and hoping that the allure of a too-tall Boston girl maintains its intrigue despite distance, cock-blocking technology, and time. And once all this is over and I’m happily enjoying breakfast across from a handsome bearded gentleman eating over-hard eggs like a freak show, I’d like you to burn in hell for all of eternity. Because goddamn, you’re killing me.
Your impatient slave to Skype,
Kate Bisantz
