An Apology Letter To All Of My Former Hookups

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Dear Ladies,

Hi. It’s me, Knox. You might know me as Randall. Some of you know me as Gregory Waltersmith III. That’s a whole other story, just suffice to say that anyone visiting Port Aransas under that name will likely be hung in the town square. The point is, you all have something in common. You made the likely horrendous choice of engaging in relations of the intimate nature with me. Maybe we made out or did hand stuff in the back of Jimmy’s truck outside a honky tonk. Maybe you went down on me under the water in your parents’ hot tub and had a red face from the heat for two days. Maybe we actually managed to make it to intercourse, and I hopefully either had a condom on me, or we made a hungover trip to Walgreens the next morning. The point is, I have one thing to say to all of you: I’m sorry.

Why am I sorry? Well, it could be for any number of reasons. Many of you didn’t enjoy yourselves to completion. That’s on me. I was either too young and inexperienced to crack the code of the female orgasm, too drunk to know for sure that I was even on this planet, or I just frankly didn’t really care. Yeah, I can be an asshole sometimes. Like when I try my patented “move,” where I flip you up on top of me while I’m still inside you. It was pretty cool, right? Yeah, I only did that because I was getting tired and wanted to let you do all the work for a while. And yes, I do that to all women. I’m lazy, okay?

I’ve also used some of you. For sex, sure, but for many more things than that, actually. You know how in romantic comedies, the guy makes a bet about sleeping with a girl with his friends and then he falls for her, but then the bet becomes public and that’s the reason she hates him for a little bit until he makes a grand, sweeping speech to her in some sort of offbeat location? Well, that happens more in real life than you’d think, except we guys rarely actually fall for you. We mostly just leave you the next morning sexually unsatisfied but content with ourselves, because we know that Watkins has to pick up our tab later that night since we managed to charm our way past your walkway. I’m sorry for using the royal “we” so much just now–I’m mostly just talking about myself.

I’ve also used some of you for simply a place to sleep, because I was in a strange city and didn’t know how to get back to my buddy’s house. Or I didn’t have a ride home from the party, and your place was within walking distance. Hell, some of you I just went home with because I knew your bed would be more comfortable than mine. By the way–and this goes for all of you–where the fuck do you buy your sheets? Every single one of you has better, more comfortable sheets than I have. It’s maddening. I’m prepared to settle down with a girl just so I can get some of those damn sheets every night.

Anyway, I’m getting off track. The point is, I’m very aware that many of you probably don’t like me. I’m sure you’ve talked to your friends about how shitty I was in bed, how I passed out before I could even get my pants off, or how extraordinarily average my johnson is, but it’s okay. I get it. I probably deserve it. I just wanted to take some time to extend an apology to all of you, and to let you know that I’m a better guy now. Well, not really. But I’m working on it.


Randall J. Knox

P.S.: For the few of you who may have actually enjoyed yourselves and have no ill will toward me, you still have my number. If you don’t, my Twitter account is at the bottom. Give me a call. You might like me now, but if you give me a chance, I can give you an experience worthy of an apology.

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Randall J. Knox

Randall J. Knox (known colloquially to his friends as "Knox") left his native Texas a few years ago, and moved to Los Angeles in his '03 Buick Regal named LeRoi to write movies with his jackass college buddies. His favorite things in life include bourbon that's above his pay grade, mix CDs, and Kevin Costner films. He isn't sure what "dad jeans" are exactly, but he knows he wants a pair.

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