Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations —changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
We were best friends in school—sorority sisters. And then you dumped me. I still can't figure out why, but when I was having trouble in my marriage, you ignored me, gossiped about me, and laughed behind my back. You thought you had the insight of a psychologist. Now the joke's on you: you married a gay man. You'll say I'm just jealous—and perhaps I am, or maybe it's just sour grapes—but it's a fact. Remember how we used to go dancing at the Boom Boom Room in Laguna Beach with the girls and marvel at the handsome, untouchable gay men? A few nights ago, some of the old gang got together (did I mention "without you"?), and we went to the Boom Boom Room. And there was your husband, getting pretty cozy with a guy on the dance floor and then later around the bar. I thought about telling you. But then I thought that maybe you don't care. Maybe you're blinded by the big diamond, the nice BMW, and the big house you live in, with a view of the ocean. Or maybe it's like that movie, the one in which Marilyn Monroe says there's nothing wrong with the fact that her husband married for looks because she married for money: you got money, and he got a beard. Does your house get lonely sometimes? Come down to the Boom Boom Room!