By Chad McNaughton
Zooey, babe. Come on. This is getting crazy. I know you’re hurting after the divorce, but really – you’ve got to give up on me. I can’t be your only shot at a normal life, and I’ve got to draw the line somewhere to preserve my own sanity. Apparently that line is forty-three voicemails in one day. And you sang in all but one of them! I kind of saw that coming, actually.
I’m not even sure how you got my number. If I sat here and tried to analyze it, I could figure out some crazy 100-degrees-of-separation between us, since we’re both musicians who co-opt boring white-people music. But other than that, this is straight-up stalker shit, Z. Can I call you “Z”? I feel like I can since you’ve apparently already given me a dozen nicknames (FYI: my favorite was “Thunder Johnson, P.I.” but I have a sneaking suspicion that someone wrote it for you).
I just don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m not interested. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’d probably throw you one if I had to, or if we were sitting around pounding beers or something. But with our age difference and our lack of socioeconomic compatibility, it just won’t work. I’m sure everyone thinks I’m crazy for doing this, but they don’t understand the drama that would come attached to our relationship, like the cloud of flying barn-debris that accompanies a tornado. I’d constantly be bombarded with your impossible financial decisions (“What do you think, babe – the $600 purse, or the $600 shoes? Or…both!?”), as well as what I can only assume will be crippling narcissism and somehow, self-doubt. Because you’re all artsy like that and shit. I’m sure you have some good qualities in there somewhere though.
Yes, you’re gorgeous, you have a beautiful voice, a good sense of humor and eyes that I would actually cut out of your skull with a paring knife to keep in a jar if you left me, but that’s all just pretense. Who’s the real Zooey Deschanel? If she’s in there, I might even want to talk to her. But the drunken hipster It-Girl who called me at 3:45 yesterday morning and left me a voicemail that started out as incoherent yelling but quickly devolved into a ukulele song apparently called “Oh, Chad – Why Do You Sleep At Night Instead of Answering Your Phone When Out-Of-State Numbers Call And Why Do I Just Keep Falling Deeper And Deeper in Love with You?” should probably just give up.
What in funk’s name is going on with you, Zo? Can I call you “Zo”? I feel like I can since your message from 7:10 this evening opened with, “I won’t be ignored. Especially by a nobody like you, Tinydick McNobody.” Yeah, not your most inspired dialogue, but far from your worst. So, Zo…tell me what the deal is. I’m actually a very good listener. Hell, I’m starting to think the only thing that will help you get past this obsession with me is to either A) Marry me tomorrow and get this over with, B) Just marry some Hollywood sack of crap like we all think you will in a year, or C) Feel the warm encouragement of the back of my pale hand across your perfect, milky cheek.
Don’t make me come down to your level, Zooey. I’m just a regular guy, and a bit of a pacifist, so that would weigh on my conscience forever. I mean, sure – the story would be awesome. As soon as you storm out after my hypothetical bitch-slap, I would immediately start writing The Time I Had to Slap Zooey Deschanel to Make Her Not Love Me. We both know that shit would get published. That’s something that neither of us wants, I hope.
In conclusion, I guess I’m a little all over the place. What can I say; I’m an emotional guy. But unless you’re willing to take the plunge and just marry me OR sacrifice one side of your moneymaker just so I can make you hate me while making my knuckles smell good for the afternoon, I just don’t see an answer. There’s no in-between for me, baby. We go all the way or we go our own ways. And I’m not going to change my phone number – I’m just going to start a blog based on your voicemails. It’ll make us both rich.