I’m writing you this letter because our friendship is in peril. It seems like the nexus of our problem stems from that dam Fife. He seems to be flooding you constantly with hyper-hydro affection. Every time I wade in your direction, you push me away with the torrents of rage that stem from Fife. Is there no end to his tyranny over you?
It’s been this way for two years. You’ve been so full of yourself. Even though you’ve released your schedule to me, the only times you are available are in the middle of the week when I am at work or from midnight to dawn. Never on a weekend when I have time to hang out with you.
You love all the attention you are getting from the guys who tickle your ribs with their oars. You take them to places that I can only dream about. They have exclusive access to all your multi-colored toys. Do you catch my drift?
For a while there, you had room in your cohort for your friends like me who slid down your slopes and stumbled through your riffles. But now, my dear Field, one needs a guide to navigate your treacherous moods.
I think the final straw was when I planned to meet you at the pool by the railroad overpass. How did you expect me to react when you blocked my access with concrete barriers? As I looked for a place to park along that beautiful stretch below the Zoar where we have played so often, you put up sign after sign, warning me to stay away.
What have I done to deserve such treatment? It’s not me who has abused you, but the hordes of your so-called friends who float and flaunt your beauty and leave their empty beer cans and broken flipflops in your pockets.
And so, dear Field, your overflowing ego has left me no choice but to fly to the swift, to branch out to the east, and to tighten my line where the stones are free.
I will miss you, old friend.