My deflowerer, the golden-haired golden-boy surfer/actor. You were going to Los Angeles to be a star. I hear you are a fat, bald, married rabbi now.
I never told you I hated gladioli. Every Friday you gave me one. At the end of the summer you gave me an armful, like 30 of 'em, these huge, spindly monstrosities. I never told you I didn't love you; I just got off on having someone to say the words to. I never told you you had a tiny penis. I never told you I knew you were sleeping with your ex while we were still together.