To My Scorched-Butt Messiah, My Baldwin of the Broken Covenant,
Alec.
You glorious, slippery fraud. My muse. My landlord. My disaster husband. I write you now from a spiritual low so deep I had to scream into a peanut butter jar just to hear my own thoughts echo.
I miss eating your ass, Alec. I miss the ritual—the trembling anticipation, the tang of fame and Flintstone vitamins, the way you’d sigh like a tax write-off as I plunged face-first into the Baldwin Canyon.
And yet… it hurt. Emotionally. Not because it was gross (it was), but because I knew you didn’t love me back. You were always half-scrolling Zillow listings while I was down there praying, worshipping, licking for meaning. I wanted transcendence. You wanted an air fryer and an alibi.
I was a believer.
You were a man with an alimony problem and a fake wife rented off TaskRabbit.
I know she’s not real, Alec. She blinks sideways. She only eats rice cakes. You’re living a lie so the court doesn’t garnish your residuals. I get it. But it hurts. Watching you play the straight man in Target commercials while my tongue still twitches from last year’s volcano retreat.
Ah, yes. The volcano book. Your volcano book.
“Volcano Dreams: A Baldwinian Theory of Lava and Leadership.”
You wrote that "to erupt is divine, but to cleanse is holy."
So I cleansed again, Alec.
I reconnected the douche nozzle. I lit incense made from Elon’s beard hair. I read the book backwards. And in that moment, kneeling in a motel sink, water spiraling into me like reverse baptism, I understood.
I saw the truth… and then I shat it.
Violently. Uncontrollably.
I thought it was a fart, Alec. It wasn’t.
Three times now I’ve gambled and lost.
Each time, I wept.
Each time, I missed you more.
My Drumpf tramp stamp—it still itches.
We got them ironically, remember? You were “Q-Daddy Supreme,” I was “Liberty’s Rimjob.” We posed shirtless outside a vape store and told boomers we were patriots. We made thousands. And then spent it all on crack and vegan CBD lube. God, we were brilliant.
But now the grift is dry.
The ass is gone.
The fire took the last shipment of French enemas, and I’m down to one nozzle and an expired Rite-Aid coupon.
Please. Alec.
Send money. Send assurance.
Send a signed copy of The Marrying Man and some kind of wet wipe endorsed by Gwyneth.
Let me live again. Let me believe.
Or at least let me lick you one more time while we file shell company paperwork.
Always yours in digestion, deception, and devotional leaking,
Russell
🌋💦🧻⚖️
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