A few more things.
Sweetie... Cutie pie... Baby cakes... There's no need for us to fight. I can tell that lately, well, lately you have been upset with me. The potholes seem much deeper and the asphalt-mended parts of the road much more aggressively bumpy. You know I'm trying to stop dropping F-bombs on such a regular basis, and those darn bumps that bottom my car out get me every time. I know you obviously aren't happy with what I said in my last letter... and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.
The abruptly violent weather changes? I know those haven't been accidents... and the evil strain of the flu that your crazy weather patterns have been fostering? Baby, you certainly didn't fall off the tip of the topographer's pencil yesterday. I know it's a cry for help. And I'm here. I'm listening. I know you have needs too, and it's not all your fault.
You've gotten the shaft for way too long 'round these parts. From the beautiful old homes that keep being ripped out of your ground and replaced with the definition of "hideously unoriginal," to the blame that is placed on you for cursing good sports teams that just can't seem to finish... I know the beating you have taken is awful. Worse even than the one I felt after paying a huge tab @ Nove on Saturday riddled with memories of horrible service and a $12 dessert way too small for its own good. You just don't deserve it.
It's time to make it right, Dallas. I want to do right by you. I feel your face, like the Little Engine that Could pasted on the front of the Chase Tower, looking down over all of this nonsense with a tear streaming down your face. Baby, I'd tattoo one on my own in your honor if my vanity wasn't so important. I would. I really would.
Maybe I could take you out for a night on the... well... "you" sometime soon. Maybe we could even take a little jaunt over to Fort Worth, to get away from it all... to remember what a real downtown used to feel like. To remember how it used to be in the good 'ole days when the streets didn't stink of hobo pee and where the potholes don't remind you of a Harry Hines hooker's vagina. To reminisce about the days when life was much simpler, when greasy hair gel was in much greater supply at the local store, when SMU kids knew what Greenville was... and stayed over there, when Uptown snobbery didn't exist and Turtle Creek was a rare, unspoiled nugget to be cherished. I know you miss it... I do too.
I want to help you get your identity back... I know it's been lost for awhile. Maybe some new clothes would help... J Lindeberg has one of those understated logos that screams "Please casually recognize this logo and validate my existence in doing so because I spent way too much on this ugly shirt." I think you would find yourself getting lots of attention from the ladies with that attire... but maybe not the kind of attention you want. Or if you want to stay on the cutting edge, you might do even better at Matthew Giese's new place, Centre. I saw a beanie there by We Are the Superlative Conspiracy and immediately thought of you.
Then again, I know you are on a tight budget. And I wouldn't want you redefining yourself by doing exactly what everyone in this town has done that has turned you in to what you are today... and is the reason the "D" in Big D now stands for debt.
It's time to start fresh... time to ask for help when you need it and to take a stand when you think something isn't right. Time to change your bad habits and to make a new life for yourself. Time to undo what has been done... to start saving instead of spending... to start exercising instead of ruining your immune system... to start giving back instead of just consuming.
Meet me at MiCo West Vil @ 6 for a few Mambos and we can discuss it more in-depth.
All my love Big D,