Dear Wayne Coyne’s Gray Suit,
Holy shit, you’re still here? I guess you just don’t know how to read people and aren’t getting the signals or something? Well, read this: WE’RE BREAKING UP BECAUSE I’M TIRED OF LOOKING AT YOU EVERY DAY. Wow, that came out pretty harsh in all caps but it needed to be done. You clearly haven’t been listening to my last few drunken, screaming rants – so here’s one that I typed out for you.
We’re done. You’re fun and all that, but Jesus Christ. How long do you think I should have to keep up this façade? Look, I don’t care that you’ve been all over the world, or that you’ve won a Grammy or two, or that you’ve been covered in the blood of a famous musician more often than Chris Brown’s knuckles. This has to stop.
I understand that you once served a purpose. Back when you were part of a pioneering live show and you were needed to show off some fake blood, all was well. You were an integral part of one of the best stage shows in the history of live music. But that was…hang on a sec…DAMN – thirteen years ago?? Sigh. Yeah, that sounds about right. The last time I saw you in person I was in my 20s and still had hope for Man’s future. Other than you, a lot has changed.
We’ve been through so much together, Wayne Coyne’s Gray Suit, but I think our relationship has just run its course. I’ll always remember the good times. You helped bring me one of the best albums of the 1990s. You got me introduced to my first (of many, I hope) tall, hot, black girlfriend – oh yeah, I probably didn’t mention her to you. She started stripping after we broke up, so I figured that was punishment enough. Hell, you probably even helped OKC gain a couple hundred cool points as our Pied Piper’s standard uniform. And that’s where it gets old, babe. You’ve become a caricature of yourself; a sort of cartoonish, fictional thing for twenty-two year old ACM@UCO students to try to spot around town. A random Gray Suit spotting in OKC is like seeing Bigfoot or Kickapoo Joe (anybody??) in the wild. Which is kind of ridiculous.
So there you have it, sweetshit. I know, I know – you hate being called that. Who wouldn’t? Anyway, I think I should wrap this up. It’s getting late and I’m not sure why, but talking about you for so long has really made me want to crack open my new “Where’s Waldo” book. Hey, there he is – right next to the big, pointless, fluorescent-psychedelic warehouse. Again.
xoxo - Chad
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