We won three ADDY’s. Silver ADDY’s for the United Way outreach video. Not bad for a low budget video that the original script I wrote got butchered down to accommodate the budget we were working with. I had to butcher it. With help by you and Whitham. Our Art Director; at the time, Anna would chime in with an input or two. I listened to your ideas, they’d spark ideas. The storytelling has to make sense. Originally was intended to be a split-screen treatment. The poor on one side, and the affluent family on the other side. There was a shoestring bracelet that was supposed to tie into a larger campaign. Unfortunately, never came to fruition. The bracelet is handmade by the poor child. Both family’s paths cross throughout the piece except they’re clearly living in two separate socioeconomic worlds. A technically and mentally challenging execution that would have required a lot of hours planning hours. A lot of scouting, a lot of prepro. A lot of time equates to a lot of money, money we didn’t have.
“Kill the split screen.” Whitham tells me.
“You’re killing me Scott. Fuck.” I nod my head in frustration. “Okay. Fuck it. Fine. Let me think.”
I step outside for a smoke. We were at my sister and brother-in-law’s cafe in the city. I need to think. I need to rewrite the story. I can take elements from each and apply them to this story. I visualize it. From start. To finish.
I run back. “Okay, the bracelet is not going to work with this story. We need something else to tie it all together. What’s the element?”
“A cookie.” You said.
“Yeah, a cookie.” Whitham agrees.
And a cookie it shall. Thank you for your contribution. All the awards have your name on them, baby.

You were great with coming up with names for all my different ventures:
“Chewy Chums” the company name for my dog toy that I was and still am developing. I can’t fucking find a U.S. manufacturer to produce it. I don’t want to go to fucking China. Everyone and their mother asks me “Did you go to China?” Why the fuck would I want to go to China? We have the labor here? So the price of the toy will be a little more expensive, so fucking what? It’s worth every penny because it would be well made. It’s supposed to last at least a year without any extreme damage where it becomes unsafe for the dog or the human.

“Diggyo” my dating app. Still in development. I keep learning, refining, testing, interacting. My entire audience is in front of me. I engage with them, I engage with the user interaction. Algorithms, results, behavior, it’s fascinating. I told you I’d start a social campaign to drive traffic. Guess what, it started last Friday. In a week, it’s gaining traction. I can see the campaign’s performance. Not bad for a guerilla marketing I launched. I got kicked out of one site. Ha. Hysterical. Generated some readership while I lasted 7 days. Good number of new users. Campaign continues on.

Don’t feel bad ladies, this is what I do for a living. You are my audience, and I’m just where you’re congregated online seeking love. What better place to promote a love story other than a dating app?

My picture with my arms around Janine, having the title “DAY WITHOUT YOU .COM” blastered all over it is one of the other 12 I created to include in all of the Tinder’s, Match, Bumble, POF, whatever other fucking lame apps they have out there. They toy with people’s emotions to get a buck out of them. Rotten. Makes me sick.

Other names you came up with:

“BarFly” for a dear friend’s app idea that I cannot disclose.

“Avenue Red” our agency.

I can’t give you High Heels & Bananas, or Bogart’s.

I used to love throwing naming exercises at you. You were great with putting words together, making words up. You were totally free form. Not typical in what we do, we like to tell a story first. You just fucking come up with a name. I liked your names. Who gives a fuck if they have a story or they don’t.
“It’s got a ring to it.” I’d always tell you.
“I’m fabulous.” You’d answer me proudly with a shake of your auburn head.

You know what I miss, baby, when I used to draw an “O” on the back of your neck when you had a hard time going to sleep. You’d lay down with your back to me. I’d lay behind you and rest my elbow on my hand to brace it up while its hand draws on your neck. Two minutes later you’d be out. You used to talk in your sleep. I used to have conversations with you. Hysterical conversations, since I was the most awake and comprehending one.
I actually used to ask you some deep secret shit questions that a sleeping person would answer truthfully. Hysterical shit. But you were clean as a whistle. No dark secrets. I married Mother Fucking Teresa. Somehow I needed to turn you into Jenna Jameson. Speaking of which… LMFAO. Nah, nothing is like the real thing.

I’m going to go check on Bella, it’s 11:34pm. Her friends should be gone by now.
I just texyelled at her. I think I just came up with a new word “Texyelled”. She has no fucking respect for our house. So I texted her this while she was downstairs with her friends to come up and clean the fucking pool room. They left it a mess. It’s her own doing for allowing them to disrespect our house like that. If you don’t stand-up to your own self respect, people will walk all over you. They’ll take your lead, you allowing them to disrespect you, your house, your belonging that your father and mother worked hard for you fucking idiot to have. But respect our fucking house. Your fucking house.
Mic drops. (Was this my second mic drop in less than a week? I don’t like that at all. But this one justified a mic drop, so fuck it.)

Good night my sweet.

I love you,

Me