Look, I want to go on record as having told Andy that our relationship would suffer if he went off to do that Planet in Peril thing for his beloved CNN. But he kept telling me that it would further his career, that it would win him some awards and that it would prove to those “closeted conservative cock suckers” over at FOX once and for all that he was the man.

So I said, “Andy, you’re my man. Isn’t that enough?”

Apparently not. A few weeks later I escorted him to JFK, kissed him goodbye and watched his 747 depart for some godforsaken hell hole.

I tried to look on the bright side. At least I wouldn’t have to wake up freezing in the middle of the night because someone likes to wrap himself up in our blanket like a goddamn enchilada. Of course, that would mean that I wouldn’t be able to snuggle up against him for warmth since I don’t like to wake him up when he does that. Because let me tell you, that jovial Anderson Cooper you see on TV is not the Anderson Cooper that wakes up at three in the morning when you yank the blanket from under his head.

“Goddamn it! I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Paula is out. Wolf could be gone tomorrow and that crank Sanchez keeps riding my ass.” I have to admit we laughed out loud when he said that about Sanchez.

Oh, I do miss my Andy. Or rather, did. You see Andy failed to tell me that that barrel-chested, moon-faced, ass-kissing do-gooder, Jeff Corwin, would be joining him on this Planet in Peril bullshit. I should have known something was up when Andy started hitting the gym every day after work. His biceps started to get a bit too big so I told him he was starting to resemble Popeye. He just told me I was jealous. Well, I wasn’t then but I am now.

To see Jeff frolic around the Amazon with my Randy Andy just made me sick. He even had the nerve to tell New York Magazine that he enjoyed tormenting him.

“I would just grab handfuls of bugs and throw them at Anderson and listen to him squeal.”

First of all, Anderson doesn’t squeal. He grunts like a man. Squealing is for pigs. Which is something I’m sure that pig-faced Jeff Corwin knows something about. Second of all, Anderson is the bug killer in our apartment. He and his mother. On a side note, Gloria can just look at a roach and it falls dead in its tracks. God, I love that woman.

Finally, I broke down. I called Andy crying and sobbed into the phone, “This planet of yours is in peril, but what about your world? Your world Andy. Your world back home with me in New York. I miss you.” I admit to being a bit of a drama queen but I was trying to provoke a response. I swear I could hear that bitch Corwin in the background. Didn’t CNN provide him with his own tent?

When Anderson failed to return, I moved out. I left that Billie Holiday CD we bought together at that stoop sale in The Village, the one we listened to that first month we were together.

And as for Corwin, if I ever see him walking down the sidewalk, I don’t care how many bears, alligators or fucking gerbils that asshole has wrestled to the ground, I’m going to get all Mexican on his ass. Bitch better watch out!

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