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Oh, Sylvia! When I think back—which I admit isn’t very often—to the time we spent together—which I admit was not very long—I cannot help but wonder (wonder? ponder? You choose) why it all went south, down the tubes.

Ours was a caustic love of the recyclable type. Packaged in a steel container of restraint, encased in emotional concrete, it was radioactive, but only in the extreme.

Helicopter Sundays found us hovering over our appointment calendars, ears pressed to the phone, murmuring sweet somethings: “Next Thursday? Don’t ask! No can do!”

Monday mornings, you embark to the TV studio to prep for the Nightly News, me to the recording studio, to pick up my latest PR assignment as a flack for this incongruously articulate Swedish rap band.

Listen, if they’re so smart, why aren’t they rich???

Whatever happened to chauffeured limos and pay toilets? Exclusivity, thy name is mud.

He who laughs last is on digital delay.

I knew our love was For A Limited Time Only, Buy One, Get Two Free, One Dollar Off With Coupon.

Isn’t everybody’s???

When did I first see you? Sitting on your parents’ driveway over Spring Break, gazing at the moon, a pale sliver in the heavens on a sultry afternoon.

“Hey, mister!” you called, pulling white earbuds from your delectable little ears. “Nirvana rocks! Guns N’ Roses are pussies!”

How could I not stop the car—admittedly, a dirty, dented classic white Corvair— and step to the curb, overcome by the stench of the blooming magnolia in your front yard?

I should have known then, my lovely white bread, that ten years hence you would be reading the weather on Channel 8.

While I march in the streets, surrounded by chanting protesters, holding aloft my hand-lettered placard— “MLB” on one side, “BLM” on the reverse.

Donald John Trump—the Little Lord Fauntleroy of our time—has offered to record greetings commemorating blessed events: graduations, birthdays, weddings and what have you—allow six weeks for delivery.

Oh, Sylvia! U R a hit! I miss U! [ crying emoji ] When I C U on Zoom, my pants balloon awkwardly.

Celebrities tripped up by tweets from their past, why can’t Americans learn to shut up one time? It’s a compulsion, sexting our way into an unsure future.

I know not what road others may take, but as for me, “You one hot babe!”