Dear City Paper

I've always had a little something on the side.

by Duane Swierczynski

Yeah, this is it, sweetheart.

It's over.

Come on. Don't look at me that way. You knew it had to end sometime.

Yes, I know Valentine's Day is a really crappy day to break up with someone. Somehow, it heightens the emotional component of the whole thing, and for that, I apologize.

But you never cared about holidays before. You demanded my full attention, no matter what the calendar said. Week in, week out. All of those long Tuesdays. Rushed Wednesdays. Bittersweet Thursdays. Even the rest of the week ... well, it was all about you. You needed all of me. And I understood that; someone like you requires undivided attention.

You're a lovely, magnificent 26-year-old. You're better than ever, even if you're looking a little thin these days.

But baby, there's something you've got to know:

I've always had a little something on the side.

And now, it's gotten serious.

That's just who I am. I've always had something on the side. Even back in high school, when I should have been devoted to math and science class, I would cheat and write little horror stories. (Sorry Father Ashenbrenner, Mr. Windfelder.) I went to college, and joined the school paper, devoting myself to the intoxicating passion of ink, paper, tape recorders, blue pens, X-acto knives and factual storytelling.

But the other stuff was always there. Waiting for me. Usually at night.

It was too much fun to tell sweet, sweet lies.

I just couldn't stop.

Even when we got together more than three years ago, you knew a piece of my heart belonged to something else. You knew I'd sold a novel, and was writing another.

Maybe you consoled yourself thinking, it'll never get serious. For a while there, I would have agreed with you, baby. Only a fool thinks he can make a full-time go of writing novels. It's like hanging at a strip club 24/7. At some point, you run out of singles. At some point, the fun ends, your beer is empty and you have to go home.

I'd return to your arms, week in, week out.

And for the longest time, it was great. You and me, baby, we had some times.

Now, we're out of time.

It's me, not you.

Remember that.

Look, it's not like I'm leaving you alone. You're surrounded by talented people who love you like crazy. Who will treat you right — the way you deserve. You're going to go on, and be bigger and better than ever. You're going to shine. Maybe you'll even put on some of that weight you lost. (You look better when you're fat — it's the truth, sweetie.)

I'll be honest, though. It'll be hard to look at you for a while. Knowing you're in someone else's gentle caress ... I don't know anybody who can look at an ex like that and pretend not to care.

But I'll come around.

You know I can't stay away from you for too long, baby.

Love,

#6

As for the Rest of You ...

Anyway, yeah, this is my last issue editing City Paper. It's been a blast. As well as quite possibly the most stressful job I've ever had. But mostly, a blast.

I'm not leaving town or anything — I'll still be here, working on novels and comics and a thousand other things I've been meaning to get to for a while. I've included my personal e-mail address below, in case anyone wants to get in touch.

I'm really not great at the whole goodbye thing, so ... *

(duane.swier@verizon.net)

* Can't believe I wrote my last editor's letter without a single "fuck."