Letter #1: This husband of yours...

Dear Caroline,

There was something I wanted to write about. I spoke with your brother last night and he told me some very interesting things about the day-by-day goings-on in your life...

This husband of yours...the guy you married a year after you ditched me...word on the street is that he "takes it where he finds it", which I suppose could mean a lot of different things, but in this case it means that he's not very particular about who he buys his crack and meth from. And he buys a lot of it, if my sources can be trusted. More than any normal man should be able to consume, which leads me to think that maybe, just maybe, he's selling it himself. But your bro says he's talked to EVERYONE in the small one horse community you call home, and NOBODY admits to buying from him (and they wouldn't lie to your brother...he's well respected and much loved there).

So I can only assume that he's buying for himself, for you, and for the five children the two of you have sired since I last saw you.

And what the fuck is that about? I NEVER used a condom when I was with you, and you never took birth control. I know our sex life leaned a lot toward fellatio & a wee bit of cunnilingus (not that you were particularly good at the former, but what did I know? It's not like I had a lot of experience getting my knob slobbed). Nevertheless, your vaginal orifice was injected with my semen many, many times and, in light of how you've churned 'em out lately, you'd think that your reproductive organs were fertile ground on which MY seed could could have been successfully sowed. But no...WHY NOT?

I have my theories. I'm sure one of them is correct. Perhaps he gets randy when the meth kicks in. That could well be. He gets high, drags you into the bedroom (though I'm sure you're not kicking and screaming), throws you down on the floor (fuck the bed, eh?), rips your clothes off, thrusts himself onto you and into you, then bangs you like the cheap piece of trash you are. Cheap as hell, trust me, I know. Cheaper than a Kentucky Fried Chicken sack that's been emptied, crumpled up and thrown into the drainage ditch by some teen hustler who had no use for it after devouring the chicken and the mashed taters and the green beans and the corn and the biscuit and HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT EXACTLY WAS IN THE BAG??? FOOD, GODDAMNIT! That's right...food. Nutritional energy to keep the punk ass hooligan going.

That's what you offer your pervy hub Frank. "Food". Sex. The one thing he married you for. But after he's taken it? As far as he is concerned (and the world, for that matter), your worse than a dirty, soggy, moldy, crumpled up Kentucky Fried Chicken sack.

You know it wouldn't have been that way if you had stayed with me...don't get me wrong, I'm glad you didn't, but it's true. I treated you right. You deserved to be treated right back then. But maybe not. Maybe I just hadn't seen your true colors yet. It matters not. I treated you like a goddamn queen. A QUEEN!

It's cool, though. You'll never be lonely now that you're with Frank. But you have to admit that he and I are nothing alike. You'd never find me passed out on the couch with a crack pipe in one hand and my penis in the other. You'd never have to turn off the DVD player when you got home because I had passed out and left it on. Consequently you never would have witnessed the unnatural sight of a woman sucking off a donkey.

And where DOES Frank get these DVDs? Did that ever cross your mind? What's next? As he continues to descend into the abyss of crack addiction whose to say that his sexual peccadilloes won't adjust to his woeful condition? Today bestiality, tomorrow necrophilia.

For God's sake, woman. Get out of this while you can. How far has he already dragged you down with him? It's shocking to me that you saw the donkey show video and yet you are still with the man. What does that say about you?

Take my advice, girl. When/if he kicks into Rob Zombie mode there will be no more good vibrations. The abuse you endure (and secretly crave) will pale in comparison to the "Hostel"-like punishment he will mete out to you. 3 days later he'll be back at Boots 'n' Saddles looking to score and you'll be 6 feet down underground wearing a cheap dress with all your jewelry stripped (all of which, by the way, will be found at the Cash America pawn shop on sale for considerably less than their original value).

Please don't let it come to that. Leave it all behind. Leave the brutal, abusive husband. Leave the 5 rotten, stinking kids, the offspring of a devil. Leave the house that was never a home. Leave the tiny little town where everybody knows everybody else's business (and makes it their own). Leave this once grand state, now contaminated with the likes of your husband and your brood of rabid vermin.

Leave it all. Find a home in the city aqueduct. Sleep in a cardboard box with your head resting on a pillow of solid rock. Conjure up the ghost of Tom Joad so you'll have someone to talk to, but just don't tell him how you gave up the good life with me to make a new one with a man who only married you because he knew you wouldn't "spoil all the fun", as he likes to say.

Hope all is well with you and yours and I'll write again soon.

Love
Orenthio