Dear Diana Krall,
It’s been 3 years since my last letter and, as you can imagine, a lot has changed.
I’ve gained some weight. I’ve changed employers. I finally got rid of that horrible Toyota Camry. And, as of this week, I finally saw you live in concert.
I don’t think you noticed me because you invited a shitload of people to join us. (At this point, I would normally apologize for cursing in front of you, but, as I learned at your concert, you are quite the potty mouth too.)
Talk about a surprise party. First, you invite all the residents of Century Village to sit in on my private show. Then you drop a couple of s-words and instantly undo all of the imaginary conversations we’ve had over the years.
What happened to me laying on top of the piano while you played? And, what happened to you playing all my favorite songs? I mean, the new album is nice, but I need a little more Frim Fram Sauce with S’Wonderful on the side. Oh, and why did you bring a gramophone on stage if you weren’t going to use it? I could’ve brought over my record collection. All you had to do was ask.
I know it seems like I’m angry, but I assure you, I’m not. Well. I’m not angry at you. As I’m sure none of this was your fault. It was probably that cold you were fighting, plus you were probably jet lagged. Who knew the combination of Dramamine and Codeine could turn you into someone that you weren’t in my imagination?
When the haze wears off, let’s get together again. But, this time just us, okay? Those old people were annoying as shit.
While you recover, I’ll be watching this video on loop to erase that experience and remember you for who you are not.