You don’t mind if I call you Johnny Edwards, do you? After all, that is your real name. While we’re on the topic of your name, Johnny Edwards, since when is “John” a nickname for “Johnny?” That’s pretty insane. Kind of like you.
I know I sound bitter and, well, to be honest I am. You see, back when I lived in Arlington, we shopped at the same grocery store. I had a major crush on you, Johnny Edwards. We’re talking BIG crush, even compared to my crush on another Democrat who shall remain nameless but MAY have been President during the 90s. Anyway, little did I know that I actually HAD.A.CHANCE. While you were having an extramarital affair, Johnny Edwards, I was sitting at home, watching the Hills and text messaging. Had I known better at the time, I would have just parked myself by the mangoes and waited. I mean, c’mon, Johnny Edwards. Rielle? Rielle Hunter? Seriously? Oh, Johnny Edwards, you could have done so much better! So much younger! So much ME.
Johnny Edwards, had the stars aligned differently, I like to imagine that I would be your baby momma. Living in seclusion with our secret love-child, paid off by an aide, featured on the cover of Star Magazine. But no, Johnny Edwards, my fantasy was not meant to be. Instead, you choose to shatter your family, your career, and my ability to drool incessantly for the next four to eight years. Also, John Kerry called. He says ‘Way to eff that one up, Johnny Edwards.’
I must stop writing about you, Johnny Edwards, as my bitterness seems not to be abating.
(And yes, I do love a good prank more than pretty much anything. Except my son. Who, by the way, is not yours, Johnny Edwards.)