A Letter to the Narcissist : No. 141

Dear Narc,
I’m glad you’ve finally opened your eyes and looked here. I’m writing to you on behalf
your devoted girlfriend. I’m your penis. Hello. You may be surprised that I was able to
format and deliver a letter, but there are many things I do under the radar because—as
you’ve claimed—I have a mind of my own. As this actually turned out to be the case and
not just an excuse for why you continued to plug me into every dank hole this side of the
Atlantic, I decided to better my mind by enrolling in a correspondence course in creative
writing with a specialty in prose. I earned excellent marks and as I’m a genuine fan of
your girlfriend (although you’ve become bored with her) I decided to take this
opportunity to let you know what’s what.
We’re leaving you. Actually, we’ve already gone. If you look down from where we’ve
placed you, you’ll find a tidy, clean, almost doll-like area between your legs in the space
that I and my friends the twins used to occupy. It’s time you knew that we, your ‘junk’ as
you say, have regularly stolen away from you starting in your early teens when you
became such a horn dog. We sought out rest and refreshment. We remember the day
we discovered a trick of the survival instinct which allowed us respite away from all the
unceasing friction and flashing. Owing to a sudden awareness brought on in us after a
particularly heinous game of ‘sack tapping’ (or Roshambo) with your secondary
sources, we found that when you were passed out, we could detach from you at will and
return at will. There was a blinding light, and suddenly we were wise, aware, and able to
be truly free of you for periods of time.
We limited our excursions for your safety and ours. I won’t go into the physics, but trust
that you were well cared for even though you didn’t deserve it. As this is in the form of a
permanent separation, however, we have (along with your long-suffering lady) obtained
the services of an excellent genitourinary surgeon—Dr. Tackle– who fixed you up after
we hopped off for good evening before last in your drunken stupor. You should recover
nicely. Wound care instructions are included in the package in the nightstand next to
your butt plug where you’ll also find the catheter and iodine. You’re welcome.
So, this is goodbye. We enjoy our new lives in solution and plan many new adventures.
We had an amicable parting with your lady, and we shall remain on friendly terms.
Afterall, you were the problem here.
Your faults are too many to list, and you wouldn’t listen anyway. Don’t try to contact your
former primary source. She won’t speak to you, accept your messages, follow your
social media, or move in your circles. You may think of her from time to time—after all
you’ll be in a significant period of solitude fruitful for contemplation—and there’s nothing
she can do about that. But owning to who you are, she’ll soon be out of sight out of
mind for you. You’re already fading from hers. Didn’t expect to be so easily forgotten,
did you?
But that doesn’t mean we can’t still be chums! In the spirit of being the bigger men, my
balls and me (or your balls, rather) are inviting you to the opening matinee of our

residency at Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Panama City Beach. From the website: “Get
hands-on and have fun exploring hundreds of rare and unusual artifacts.” We
open on Christmas eve, and we’d be delighted for you to come. Get it? Did you get the
joke? But, really, please do come. We’d love to have you.
So, that’s it. You fucked up, fucked around, and found out. We wish you no ill will. Your
former girlfriend will soon forget you. She’s so happy now and so free. After just hours she
looks better. You are now becoming exactly what you feared: unimportant.
But we can still be friends.
See you next Tuesday,
Your cock and balls