Open Letter to Mayer’s Head: In response to “John Mayer reviews The Marriage Plot”
December 13, 2011
You won’t remember me. I am insignificant. Like the girl who recommended Jeffery Eugenides’ book. He also wrote The Virgin Suicides. Sofia Coppola made that into a movie, perhaps you saw that? Everyone knows and loves Sophie. I actually got to work a day on her last movie Somewhere. My part was insignificant. The experience was sublime. Isn’t that the interesting part of life, your part can be removed from the screen, lost to others, yet the memory sticks like a glitter bomb to your brain.
Oh goodness look at me, I am being so rude, I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Jennifer. I believe you dated one of us once. So just go ahead and put us in a bundle: a heap, a load, an assemblage of Jennifer’s. Individuality is insignificant.
I’m writing to ask a few questions to your large head. I’m sure you have noticed its size by now. You have confessed to spending most of your time writing songs watching yourself in the bathroom mirror. All that time spent in front of a reflection, you must have noticed that the size was, well sizable. Especially when confronted with it in person is when you notice the mass. My question is this, because of the aforementioned largeness of skull, is this why you refer to yourself in third person? Putting aside any possible personality disorders, is it really because your head is so big that it needs an additional reference?
Moving on. Why the motherfucker? Is this something that we, as your readers, are supposed to interpret as a personal reference? Because of the third person I can’t help but assume that this could be some kind of additional self-reflection. So are you, Mayer? A motherfucker? Because that would be really uncomfortable for us to know and/or have to think about.
Mayer, do you remember? We have met a few times. Once was Clive Davis’s pre-Grammy dinner. You and I, my now ex-husband, and that secret-needle-junkie-misogynist were having a cigarette outside. Oh you know who I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you don’t. He’s your idol, don’t let the head overcome you now. Yes I’m referring to Dave Mathews. So, we were all smoking together and stuck outside while someone like Whitney Houston preformed inside. Suddenly your head was pushed forward, all of us were in fact, as a team of bodyguards kettled us aside to make room for a small person encased in the middle. Prince. He just couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let him in. He was stuck with the rest of us. Mayer do you recall?
What about the time backstage at Z-100’s Jingle Ball? Ex-hubby’s band was one of the first in the row back stage and so everyone had to walk by. Lots of waving and nodding happened all night long. My glitter bomb memory recalls I had on a white faux fur vest and a rapid heart beat most of the night. The other bands acknowledge the non-verbal rules of do not enter my dressing room unless invited and I will not enter yours: it’s like teens and adults. Mayer did your head or your third person hiccup and forget this etiquette? Because you stopped, entered while I was reading and the rest of the boys were warming up, and stated, “This room smells like poop.” Well Mayer was that really the right thing to do or did your substantial noggin get carried away with itself again? Just like it did when the idea to ink a whole sleeve tattoo came upon you? Are you going to do the other arm? Or has that idea wandered into the air or gotten caught in the mouth of a passing bird, soon to be digested and turned into, well you know what….
Jennifer Sky is a writer of fiction and nonfiction, a student and believer in magical things. She is the current Editor-in-Chief of 12th Street. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Interview Magazine, Electric Literature, AOL, Scripps Newspapers Group, The Linnet’s Wings, and is forthcoming in short story anthology Love Magick. She lives in Brooklyn. Follow her on Twitter. Or check out JenniferSky.com.