Eric Feezell, Who’s Not Bitter, Sends A Few E-Valentines To Ex-Girlfriends


Dear Stacy,

Well, it’s been a while Stacy. What, 16 years? Although you weren’t my first “girlfriend,” according to the textbook definition, you were my first kiss, and therefore my first “real girlfriend,” according to the Awkward Seventh-Grader Pocket Field Guide — which doesn’t really exist, by the way. Had it, I might have known I was doing, and you might not have broken up with me a mere two hours after that sloppy smooch.

Also, while we’re exploring all things chronological, my mother probably wouldn’t have subsequently caught me in the act of French kissing the cover of one of her Cosmopolitan’s just days later. She took down all my posters after that — mostly of male rock stars, mind you — and even a framed picture of my Grandma. Just wanted to tell you that, you know, that was pretty weird.

Hope life is treating you well!



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Dear Gwen,

Hey, Gwen! It’s Eric. We went out briefly during freshman year of high school. Remember me? I hope so, because the last thing a guy wants to feel is that he didn’t etch himself into a girlfriend’s memory in some remarkable and enduring way. Perhaps I didn’t throw the proper amount of geodes at your head or slash your mom’s tires frequently enough? Who knows? I really wouldn’t blame you if I’m not ringing a bell, though. I know you were taking a hefty amount of pills at the time.

Anyway, just feeling nostalgic. Too bad you smashed those geodes — and any healthy, normal sense of relationships I possessed — into a zillion crunchy, shiny pieces. Might be worth something today…



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Dear Veronica,

Veronica, you were hot. I really, really, really wanted to have sex with you. A lot. And I think you knew that, too. Probably because I would tell you three or four times a day. But you were chaste, and I respected that.

What is it with high school girls? They run around, shouting from the mountaintops about having just taken the virginity pledge, knowing that all it’s really gonna do is make even more guys want to get in their knickers. They talk about the sanctity of sex, about waiting till marriage, making their boyfriends think, “Gee, maybe I should marry this girl right after graduation.” Then they drink Schnapps and bone the entire offensive line of the football team inside of a week. What’s that all about?

I’m just thinking out loud, as they say. Hope you have a happy, venereal disease-free Valentine’s Day, as they say.

Warm regards,


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Dear Bonnie,

I have a question:

Were we in love?

I believe we were, simply because we did unquestioningly what people in love do for one another. Things like, I don’t know, picking each other up from LAX at three in the morning and not getting impatient or angry about the egregious flight delay, even though we had to be at work in three hours. Or flying cross-country to keep each other company while we trained to get stupid, worthless real estate licenses from that quack in Pennsylvania.

The most telling sign of our love, I think, was our mutual desire to make the other skip his own family Christmas and meet what could quite potentially be his in-laws, or so he thinks, and then dump him eight days later at an Applebee’s. Classically wrought affection, if ever it was.

By the way, I’ve watched The Big Lebowski hundreds of times since you gave it to me — one of my favorite movies, now. Out of curiosity, how many times have you worn those Tiffany sapphires?

I hope a lot.

Take care,



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