God is Calling. I Can't Marry You.

Hello Preston,

Do you remember me? I'm Angela.

With me on my knees and with you having a view of the top of my head more than any other part of me, you may not remember what I look like. You may not remember my pretty face. Other than recognizing my big tits, your favorite part of me along with my talented mouth, you may not remember who I am at all, especially after forty years' time. With me thinking I was unforgettable, you forgot me as soon as you graduated college, didn't you?

It's been awhile, hasn't it? After all of this time of silence and no communication, I imagine you're shocked to hear from me again. With you moving so very many times to bigger and better homes from Boston, to Winchester, to Andover, to Wellesley, and back to Boston again, no doubt you never thought I'd ever find you but I did. Lucky me. What are the odds of that?

Sadly and unfortunately, isn't it interesting how few people write letters these days? With texting, tweeting, e-mail, Facebook, and Skyping, it's very rare that I receive a letter of hello, how are you, thanks, or just a hand written note filled with some general news. Old fashioned that way, with technology even passing me by, an MIT math and science nerd, I still continue to write letters to friends and family and in return I mostly receive e-mails.

Based upon some of the last minute, forced suicide notes I've read, that's a long story for another time, I can tell a lot from someone's handwriting. Perhaps I'll be reading your forced, suicide note soon. Just from someone's handwriting, I can tell if they're angry, afraid, happy, sad, in love, or rushed. Sadly, I can't tell anything from someone's impersonal e-mail. With penmanship one of them, there's a lot of things that have become passé since we were young college students madly in love, at least I was anyway.

Actually, today I heard about an amazing celebration that I'd like to share with you, something that happened forty years ago. Forty years, can you imagine that? So very long ago, I remember the first time we met as if it was yesterday. Do you believe we're in our sixties now?

Speaking of the sixties, with you going to Harvard and me attending MIT, just down the street from one another, those were good times when we met as freshman in a Cambridge coffeehouse. What the hell happened to the time? Where did the years go? With just a blink of an eye, ten years are gone, then twenty years, and now forty years.

Ah, thanks all to you, my life is but a bittersweet memory of my carefree naiveté and of what it could have been and what it should have been. Only naïve no more, I finally see the big picture now. Duh? I get it. Not one easily tricked, you had me fooled.

I have a standing joke with a friend that it always seems to be Friday. It's Monday and then it's Friday. In the blink of an eye the entire week has flown by me. Interestingly enough, it never felt like that when I was working full-time with my father, Don Vito, in our family olive oil business. We have more businesses other than the olive oil business. We have a rubbish disposal service and a protection service. Actually, we have our fingers into everything, trucking, shipping, construction, and gambling. Wherever there's a dollar to be made, we're there.

Anyway, when I was working, with the week dragging by, I lived for the weekend. Now with my father retired and me retiring soon, I have my soldiers run the business for me, their Godmother, before electing a new head of the family. Seemingly, the days fly by with me scratching my head while trying to remember what day it is. Surprised that it's Friday again, has morphed from thank God it's Friday to I can't believe it's Friday.

Now to the point of this letter. Congratulations Preston! You finally did what you said that you'd never do. Instead of becoming a priest, the reason why you dumped me and told me you couldn't marry me, you got married. How about that? Coincidentally, more remarkable than that, you were married within months of dumping me. It's so interesting how life and sometimes death can turn on a dime, if you get my meaning.

"Bang! Bang! You're dead!"

Do you remember I always used to say that about someone I didn't like. It's a phrase I learned from my father. Only, he said that as he was firing his gun into someone and I said that as a joke. Never taking it lightly to take a life, killing someone was no joke to my father. Yet, he'd as soon kill someone than having to listen to someone making excuses for a job they promised to do and didn't do.

You would have liked my Dad, he was a good man. Unlike you, he never lied. If he said he'd do something, he did it. He told my Mom he'd marry her and unlike you promising to marry me, my Dad married my Mom. How about that?

Sorry, I'm rambling. Anyway, while being fitted for a new mink coat, one with a hood that goes down to my ankles, Sarah Kensington stopped me at the furrier today and asked if I was still in touch with you. Personally I never liked the woman but surely, you remember Sarah, don't you? She was the maid of honor at your wedding.

Sadly, I told her that I hadn't been in contact with you since college. Understandably, with me not being invited to your wedding, I told her that I didn't know you even got married. The last I heard, I told her that I thought you had become a priest. Imagine the shock on my face that you didn't become a priest. Imagine the shock on my face when she told me that you married Tara.

"Tara?"

Sarah told me everything about you and Tara. She seemingly took great joy and seemed happy to fill me in of all the dirty details of your personal, private life. To be honest, I've always hated Sarah for being such a gossip. God she was such a nasty bitch and having not changed one iota, she still is a nasty bitch. In my line of work, unless singing like a canary to the District Attorney, we never talk about anything that we did. Not in the secret society nature of the La Cosa Nostra, we don't gossip to anyone about anything. Just as I said about Sarah back then, I'd still do now only with real bullets this time.

"Bang! Bang! You're dead," I mumbled beneath my breath as she fled the furrier in such a hurry after I had a private word with her.

I was with my father's longtime associates at the time Big Louie and Crazy Vinnie. I don't think you ever met them. Actually, anyone who has the unfortunate circumstance of meeting them, will never meet them or anyone else for that matter again, if you know what I mean. Trust me, they'll be paying Sarah a visit at the end of the week for being so catty to me and disrespectful of me.

How dare she talk to me like that? How dare she so upset me? How dare she mock the love that I had for you by rubbing my pain and misery in my face? Apparently, she didn't know who I am and who I've become but she does know now.

Well Preston, surprising even to me, especially to me, I guess you didn't become a priest after all because you just celebrated your 40th wedding anniversary. How about that? Congratulations. Bravo!

I checked online and saw an article and a picture of you and Tara in the Boston Globe. She's still very pretty. Seemingly, you were more attracted to a WASPY, small breasted, blue-eyed, petite, cold, blonde woman than you were to a tall, dark haired, brown-eyed, sultry, busty, hot Italian woman.

With you knowing the temper that I inherited from my father, Don Vito, it was really hard for me to control myself when talking to Sarah. I wanted to pistol whip the bitch with the licensed, concealed handgun that I always carry in my pocketbook. Yet, even though my heart was pounding almost out of my chest at hearing the news of your 40th wedding anniversary, I managed a pleasant smile. Tired of her moving her lips, I moved the conversation to another, more positive topic, namely her funeral arrangements if she uttered another word about you.

"Sarah, if you say another word about Preston and/or Tara, I will have Big Louie and Crazy Vinnie take you out back. After they strip you naked and fuck you up your blue blood, socialite ass, they'll pee on you before they kill you and dump you in one of my dumpsters. Trust me, their signature move to do with a woman that I so hate, they've done it before. With you seemingly disappearing from the face of the Earth, no one will ever find your rotting carcass."

After you being so convincing in being called to service by the Lord, Jesus Christ, I've always thought of you serving your parishioners Communion instead of serving your wife breakfast in bed. I wished that I had received that particular news in private and in letter form so that I could have shown my true feelings in the confines of my room. With the messenger always taking the brunt of my Sicilian temper and my La Cosa Nostra need for revenge, Sarah was lucky we weren't alone.

She was lucky she made the right decision to stop talking. She was lucky we were in a public place. She was lucky she beat it the Hell out of there after I told her what Big Louie and Crazy Vinnie would do to her. Only, trust me, Sarah won't be lucky for long.

Having learned from my father to keep my friends close and my enemies closer, I don't think Sarah noticed my shocked reaction to her startling news. Of course she knew that I was angry when I threatened to kill her if she didn't stop talking. Just as she I couldn't get away from me fast enough, I couldn't wait for her to leave.

Something that gives me great peace when I'm upset, I rushed home to clean and load my guns, all twenty-seven of them. Those are just the guns I keep on hand upstairs for my personal protection. I have more guns scattered throughout the house and an entire arsenal in my cellar.

While cleaning and loading my guns, I spent the next few hours reminiscing about our heated love relationship and our plans to marry and start a family. Until God personally called upon you to become a priest, I thought you were my dream man. I thought you loved me. I thought you were going to marry me. How stupid could I have been to believe anything you said?

Harvard educated, you would have made a welcome member to my family, La Familia. After finding out that you lied to me about becoming a priest, I laughed, I cried, and then I got angry, really angry, angry enough to kill you with my bare hands with Big Louie and Crazy Vinnie by my side for my personal protection. Being that I'm my father's daughter after all, my anger always inspires my need for revenge.

"Bang! Bang! You're dead!"

When I calmed down some, I remember hearing Sarah's voice saying that you had married Tara, your college sweetheart. Tara? That's odd, you told me Tara was your cousin. Foolish enough for me to believe you for four, long, sexual years, I thought I was your college sweetheart.

Preston, tell me and be honest, I won't get mad, really I won't, but was there more than one of us who was your college sweetheart? Was Tara your girlfriend while I was your fuck buddy? Was I your Sicilian whore? Did you use me and abuse my affections of love just for sex? Is that it? You can tell me the truth now. It's been forty years, water under the bridge, let bygones be bygones and all of that bullshit.

During those four years I thought I was your only college sweetheart, at least that's what you told me, and yet you married someone else under the pretense of telling me that you were going in the seminary to become a priest? Priest my ass. How dare you? May God forgive you because I surely won't. God you're such an asshole Preston.

Even after forty frigging years later, I feel so used. I feel so abused. I feel so stupid to have believed you. I feel a pent up rage that I must release by killing someone and guess who's number one on my short hit list of one.

While I was pining away over the loss of you and hoping you'd change your mind about the priesthood and about giving yourself to God, you were living with your wife and children. Isn't that funny? You may think it's funny but, not funny to me at all, I surely don't. With me the center of your humor, forgive me for not laughing at your little joke. I can just imagine you telling all of your friends about me, your college whore, at the Harvard Club or at the Algonquin Club on Commonwealth Avenue.

With my family so very close to the Catholic Church, the late Cardinal Cushing and the late Pope Benedict XVI, you dumping me to become a priest was the only thing that saved your WASP ass. Do you know that? Do you know how lucky you are not to have been dead for forty years?

My mother made you meatballs and had Rocco deliver them to your dorm room every Sunday along with homemade cannolis. How dare you eat my mother's meatballs and cannolis while lying about being in love with me? That's just wrong. That's just nasty. That's just not right.

Please take a short walk with me down memory lane so that I can get some closure and some of this pain out of my system. Do you recall telling me that you were never going to marry and that even though I was the love of your life, you couldn't marry me because you had been called by God to become a priest? Do you remember us having that conversation the last time we saw one another?

Filling your every sexual need and lustful desire with you filling my every hole over and again, do you also recall that you sinned with me in every possible sexual way all through college? Yet you didn't say a word about the priesthood until we were close to graduation and close to our agreed upon wedding date? Instead, you told me you loved me, Preston. You told me you wanted to marry me, Preston. You told me you wanted to have three children. You told me that we'd get married after we graduated college.

Then, once you graduated, a time before the Internet where I could have easily found where you were living in the way I found you now, you disappeared. Poof! You were gone without a trace. Naively, I figured you were hidden behind the seminary wall instead of living in a brownstone mansion in the Back Bay of Boston with your wife and children. How could I have been so stupid?

C'mon Preston, fess up and be honest with me. I promise not to get mad too much. Did you just use me as your fuck buddy? Was that all I was to you, a hot, Italian piece of ass? Was it just all about sex and free love? Was it just about me blowing you and you fondling my big tits and fingering my nipples before cumming in my mouth? Just as you had no intention of becoming a priest, you had no intension of marrying me, did you?

You must have thought me really stupid and admittedly so I was. Love has a way of doing that to women, even a woman smart enough to attend MIT. By the way, Italians, especially Sicilian Italians don't disrespect their women and live to talk about it. Did you know that?

Giving you the benefit of the doubt, you probably didn't know that Sicilian men have more respect for Sicilian woman than you showed me. With you such a proper Bostonian and your family longtime Boston Brahmins, you wouldn't know anything about Italians or Sicilians, would you? You were lucky you pulled the wool over my eyes by telling me that you were giving yourself to God. As if you were in the Witness Protection Program, you were lucky you disappeared because, trust me, had you not disappeared, you really would have disappeared in the way that Jimmy Hoffa had.

You broke my heart when you announced your priestly plans and now after years of trying to forgive, forget, and letting it go to mend my broken heart, this news of you celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary breaks my heart all over again. That should have been me married to you. Your children should have been my children. Tara's life should have been my life. How dare you do that to me! How dare you use me and then lie to me? Never to be, you robbed me of what could have been.

The lyrics from Karen Carpenter's song has always been special to me, "I loved you in a place where there's no space or time." Only, now I know that you were marking your time and counting your days to make your getaway. I was a woman you'd never take home to meet your family. Apparently, with my olive skin and Italian last name, you were ashamed of me. Making peace with the fact that with you becoming a priest that I'd never marry you, I had finally opened my heart up to all of the new possibilities of being with someone else. Only, except for an occasional sexual affair, there was never any room in my heart for anyone else but you.

With me still foolishly holding my undying love for you, I never married. I never had children. Now with you coming out of the past to haunt me again in the present, all the old pain is rushing to open up my old wounds. I blame Sarah for shoving the memories of you in my face. I'll deal with her later. With my anger replacing my pride that you became a priest, now you're just scum to me. I can put a contract on you but this is personal. This is something I want to take care of myself.

When you broke up with me two weeks before graduation, I couldn't function and thought that I'd die from my broken heart. I loved you with every fiber of my being and thought you felt the same way about me. You said that your heart was broken too, but that you had to answer the call to God to become a priest regardless of how you felt about me. Swallowing that bullshit, hook, line, and sinker, how could I possibly compete with God! God, I was such a fool.

How could I say terrible things about God taking you away from me when you were answering your call to the Almighty? You giving yourself to God silenced me in a way that I'll never forget and I've never been silenced. With nothing more to say and nothing more to do, our love affair was over. Other than the four, sexual years we had together, my dreams, my hopes, my desires, and my love for you was never to be realized.

I was so shattered that I didn't attend my own graduation and had to seek professional counseling to feel some relief from the horrific pain. What was even worse is that you never picked up the phone, wrote a note, or ever contacted me again to see how I was doing after your pronouncement for the Glory of God and your professed personal devotion to the Almighty. There one day and gone the next, it was as if you had died. It would have been easier for me if you had died. I would have grieved for you, gotten over you, and gotten on with my life but you were out there somewhere. Every time I attended Mass, I expected you to magically appear from behind the altar.

We were together for four years, exclusively I thought, until I heard the news today. Seemingly, you didn't care enough for me to even check on me. Now that's hardly the kind of man who'd join the priesthood. Where was your compassion and your concern? Where was your decency? Where was your love?

Still not believing Sarah, with her always being such a nasty bitch, and with her taking pride in telling me that you've been happily married for forty fucking years, I checked the Internet. Your call to God and you becoming a priest was all a lie. You're not a priest. You're not even Catholic. You're Protestant. You're nothing but a money grubbing CEO/CFO accountant and a Republican to boot. How dare you deceive me with your lies? How dare you use me for sex?

Instead of helping to change the system, you joined the system. You were nothing but a lie. We were nothing but a lie. You never loved me. You never had any intention of marrying me. I was nothing more than your Sicilian whore who sucked you and fucked you day and night.

You married Tara. We were all friends back in college. Continuing the lies, you told me she was your cousin. I had no idea that you were with her too? Did she know about me or was I your dirty, little secret? Did you love her because her family had money and could give you not only a good job but also a career with her father's business? Well, newsflash, my family not only has money but also my family has power and political influence too.