Rita was dancing last night at Good Fellas, Davey. I know you think it's pathetic that I still go there, to watch your wife strip. I see her roll her eyes when I walk in, and I hear the girls laughing when I toss my bills on the stage.
I'm sorry it had to be this way, Davey. It's not even your fault, really. You was just made handsomer. And smarter, too, in your own way. I can't even really claim you stole Rita from me.
Last night she looked at me and lip-synched as she she tried to untangle her g-string from her heels:
"I didn't mean to leave you, darling
I unfurled my sail
and the wind did blow"
I guess you just always made a better impression, Davey. You got that strong chin, and that grip when you shake a guy's hand. And those hard eyes. Loud laugh. (Why why why why why I did not drop my anchor? Oh, Lord I will never know)
It's not your fault, Davey, But then, man, I still can't believe it. They picked you for the Apollo mission! You! I don't know how you did it, Davey, whether you're fucking Bill's daughter or what. I do know one thing, Davey, and that is you ran over my fucking dog, you motherfucker, three weeks ago, the morning of our last simulation, and I couldn't stop crying and vomiting, you shithead. I do blame you for that.
So, maybe they'll catch me, and maybe they won't. You'll fall from the tower. A terrible accident. And here's me, the first alternate, comforting Rita, and going TO THE MOON!