Honey, do you mind if we talk? Preferably out of the view of this camera crew that’s been following us everywhere the past three months (i.e. ninety days)? We’re on episode four of this unexpected detour in our relationship, and I’m feeling a little exposed. I’m also feeling misleadingly edited as a temperamental shrew before an audience of countless people the world over. In hindsight, I probably should have thought twice, or at all, about this. It’s gotten to the point that we’re the subject of a reality show on TLC and that rings some alarm bells for me.
In our defense, the fact that our initial meeting was online isn’t that unusual. This is the era of app dating, after all, but we only found each other after you randomly slid into my DMs on social media. Who does that? Perhaps someone who’s done it numerous times before, and might have had several other identical relationships simmering at the same time? Regardless, I decided sending you a total of four thousand dollars in loans and expensive gifts over the course of a year and a half was a fair trade for a few moments of flirtation. I was overjoyed when I spent three thousand additional dollars to travel overseas and discover that not only did you exist, but you were also ready to marry me for swift access to a K-1 Visa. At least this time you weren’t a fictional Nigerian monarch!
Retrospectively, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that this drew the attention of one of the trashiest forms of mainstream media. I’m a person of above average intelligence, but the relationship choices I’ve made are indicative of very poor decision making. This is plausibly due to past traumas and the obvious mental health problems that have manifested as a result. I’m an adult with a college degree, and a respectable, good paying job that offers excellent insurance to cover the very sort of treatment this would require. But in lieu of therapy, I figured blind trust in an exploitative intercontinental romance was the better way to go. See? That was a bad decision. Please don’t tell me I’m overreacting, or playing the victim. It’s fair to say by now that I am one.
I’m reminded of this when I awaken each morning to find cameras trained on me, and you engaged in irate conversations over the phone. You know I don’t speak your language, and the person on the other end of the call may or may not be your ex-wife, and the mother of your two children. By the way, has your divorce been finalized? Did it even happen? And it is just two kids, right? The impression I’m getting is that it may be three, or even four, stemming from couplings with just as many women. That’s a sign, and not a good one, which is probably what the overwhelming majority of our viewers are thinking as well. Maybe they have a point?
This hasn’t been without its highs, but lately they’ve been greatly outnumbered by the lows. All of which is to say, I’m breaking things off. If I’m still contractually obligated to allow the cameras to follow me around for the rest of the season, but it’s a trade-off I am willing to make while I pick up the jagged pieces of my shattered psyche. There would have been a spin off anyway. My hope is that in time, you can come to terms with everything you’re struggling with, and I can rehabilitate my image as an argumentative belligerent that I did virtually nothing to deserve. Please take care of yourself, and expect to hear from my attorney shortly.
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Corey Pajka is a Brooklyn, NY-based writer. His satirical work has been published by Points In Case , Flexx Mag, The Weekly Humorist, Robot Butt, and The Satirist. His theatrical work has been produced regionally at theatres across the U.S. and in New York at Off and Off-Off Broadway venues. His radio plays are available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and other outlets. He is also a climate change activist, working with 350Brooklyn. He co-edits their bi-weekly newsletter and contributes to their e-magazine Parts Per Million. He is married to another playwright, and they have a Pembroke Welsh Corgi named Sancho Panza. www.coreypajka.com
