In the wake of my memoir’s astonishing success, I offer thanks to the many I once loved selflessly, which led to my disliking you quite publicly in my chapters devoted to you. I’m sorry I used your real names, and thanks from the bottom of my heart for all the great material. Without you, I would have had a very dull story on my hands.
To Steve Evans most especially, I apologize, you putz, for the unsavory picture of your character that I’ve painted which, I trust, may now lead to your arrest.
Your Robin Hood complex—sharing cheap drugs with the needy—was a cockamamie coverup for your sinful nature.
To my once beloved, now loathed B. A. Goodman—that ironic name belies your countless betrayals. Searching my soul I find not one iota of regret that my book will retroactively taint your innumerable liaisons with other women, two of whom were concurrent with me.
Further: I may have lost you the respect of your grown children sired through your many wives and not-quite-wives, but I think all will have learned something about love and trust along the way. I’m gratified that your associates who read up on our intimacies herein will learn crucial details about your body parts. Rest assured, the hurt I may cause you and your families is infinitesimal compared to the chronic trauma you inflicted on me. If I had agreed to the NDA at the fee you offered, it might have covered a portion of the endless therapy I continue to undergo. I am pleased to hear from your attorney that you are aging disgracefully and that you’re incapable of doing further damage. I extend sympathies in exchange for the satisfaction your humiliation has gifted me.
To my dear mother—the perfect standard bearer for the psychologically abused parading their martyrdom to any who will listen. Because of you, many women who might tolerate insufferable insult and injury just to have defective roofs over their heads will think thrice. I commend you, Mother, for exemplifying what not to do in a marriage. Words cannot describe how much I learned from you, yet I admittedly do use a great many of them describing your foolish mistakes in my book.
To my late father whose nonconsensual cremation won’t allow him to turn over in his grave, I’m sorry—we didn’t arrange for one. We scattered your ashes over the grave of your sister whom you loathed. And it’s a good thing no headstone heralds your remains, as your detractors would have spit on it so often as to cause an overgrowth of ragweed to which you were deathly allergic.
To my former self. I am so very glad I am no longer you, but I’ve gotten a lot of bang for the buck out of depicting what a codependent sniveling imbecile you were back in the day. How you perpetrated self-deceptions that made you a victim countless times in often repetitive ways amazes me. You knew the truth and foresaw the bleak future, but for some nutty reason, like naked need or a severe hormonal imbalance you continued on your merry way to masochistic heartbreak. I admire your persistence in pointing fingers at the abusers who were all actually you.
Having clawed my way to the top riding your ambitious back, I thank you and I apologize. Without your sacrifices I would not be where I am today. Had I known I’d have the guts to be making an accurate historic record of the so-called life I once lived, I might’ve chosen far differently and denied my future self this gloating over having learned from your mistakes. I am the assassin of your social standing and you are the victim of my self-discovery. That winning combination has made me the best-selling, #286,346 ranked author I am today. ❏
Melanie’s a stage, screen voice actor, now author of Odd Woman Out.