Dear [name of client]—
I’ve received voicemail, e-mail, or other communication from you, your spouse, or legal representation indicating that you won’t be loaning me the money necessary to repair the/my missteps taken with our initial investment undertaking. I was all screwed up inside when I heard you didn’t want to make another go of it. Questions raced through what the cocaine has left of my brain; why doesn’t [he/she] want to repair personal financial reserves and return to prosperity? Why are they/he refusing to move on from a mistake I admit having made with their money? Then, after the questions stopped racing through my head, I felt compassion for you. And trust me when I say it’s not an easy thing to feel after a blurry six months of submitting to humiliating, pharmaceutically induced sexual scenarios with my then fiancée (sex worker) involving wigs, electric razors, prosthetics, and something called phenylpropan-ephedrine hydrochloride, which she simply referred to as “Rush.” And the reason I feel compassion for you is because I know now, after receiving you or your legal representation’s reply to my previous letter, that you’re not willing to become wealthy again. And there’s nothing I can do for you, if you’re not willing. So I continue my self-chosen leave of absence from financial services. I’ll be honest—because I’ve always been honest with you, [name of client], even in the face of making a few mistakes—my leave of absence has been good for me; straight out of the hell my life had become and into the heart of God’s country. I’m spending some time getting out of New York City and driving through the mountains, tracing a path from Bozeman, Montana, all the way through the Rockies and clear down to Taos, New Mexico; town to town in a rented RV, drinking/working my way through the feelings on the nights when I’m not driving, and pondering a higher power and my true calling as I drive during the days. The RV is a little over-the-top—it’s got a huge mural of an eagle flying over a lake that runs all the way from the front fender to the rear bumper. He’s got a trout in his claws, and, as obnoxious as some people seem to find it, I find the mural a reminder of our natural, God-given drive to succeed. This thing is huge, chief; 64 feet long. It’s got everything I need inside, it’s only a hundred and fifty bucks a day, and it’s a hell of a lot more fun than the $12,000-a-month apartment I was relieved of in Manhattan. I’m just outside Jackson Hole, the clarity I’m gaining is amazing, and I can already tell you this: I don’t care that we’re not working together anymore on your financial goals; I still want you to succeed and recover your losses and eventually make millions. Anyone who stands in the way of your natural drive to succeed and provide for you and yours, I hope you step right over them the way I talked about stepping over obstacles to reach our financial goals with your portfolio before I got briefly sidetracked with my “situation” with Krystal. So, from my premium 64-foot Fleetwood Summit IV, I say to you: Fuck ‘em all, chief—the Securities Exchange Commission, my former boss, Krystal for jerking my heart around and leaving me strung out on drugs I didn’t even know how to procure, and anyone else who gets in your way on your rise back to the top. They can all go to hell. And let’s at least make this much official: the past is the past. The way I see it is that the least I can do is stay in touch with you, free of charge, and keep you updated as to my progress getting myself back in shape to re-enter the field of investment management; if you decide to work with me again in the future, great—if not, that’s fine, too. Whatever happened in the past happened with my best intentions of making you millions. Obviously, that didn’t pan out, but I think you’re going to like the work I’ve been doing on myself, both inside and out. Screw the past, boss. Whatever happened is between you, me, and God. I’ll write again once I get into Colorado. Captain Regret is going to rise from the ashes, my friend—you’ll see!
To making millions of dollars (no pressure) in the not too distant future—
P.S. Yes, I’ve been drinking.