Show me just the smallest fraction of warmth that you give to your fans and Lisa Marie and Angie Dickinson. How about that? Told me I was a good dog, scratched behind my ears, something. Hey, you know what? Maybe if you were just nice to me once in a while. If you could get me on some sort of prescription, I bet I would feel a lot better. Wouldn’t you cry all the time? But why am I even telling you this? You’ve probably already crumpled this note into a ball to play crumpled-up-paper basketball with Sonny and Red. I eat some dog food, lap up water, lick myself a bit, and it’s still there. I wake up in the morning and there’s this massive cloud of despair hanging over me. I think a doctor would call it severe clinical depression, if you ever took me to a doctor, like a responsible owner would. This relationship is broken, Elvis, and it’s up to you to fix it. But instead, you publicly announce that I’m no friend of yours. I give you loyalty and affection, I prostrate myself before you, but, as I understand the whole man-dog dynamic, you’re supposed to love me too. And while that is my physiological imperative, it’s not my choice. You treat me like crap, you insult me, but yet I am, unavoidably, a hound dog and thus have no choice but to love you with blind and eternal devotion. You’ve put me in a no-win situation, and I’m more than a little bit upset about it.
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