Gone Bitch: A Parody of Gone Girl

Well well well, guess who’s back? Nick Dunne, Master of Disappearance. After our one night together in January, I never heard from him again. I certainly had a right to be upset about this, but I wasn’t, because I’d classified him as a “player,” which is a term girls invented to make themselves feel better about a guy who fucks them and doesn’t call afterwards.

So anyway, I was walking in Central Park today and I’d stopped to look at some of those shitty paintings that “artists” in Central Park sell, and I heard from behind me:

“Back away from those paintings, ma’am. Do not take a step closer.”

I knew immediately who it was, of course. I wanted to be angry at him, but I liked that he remembered his first words to me, and I turned around to say hi. But his face showed no recognition of me, and he said:

“I can buy you a painting, but just one.”

“Um, hello?” I said. “Nick? It’s me, Amy? The girl you fucked but didn’t call again?”

“Amyyyyy!” he said. “That’s right, now I remember! How are you? You look great!”

It turns out that he’d wanted to call me but he’d lost my phone number and the contact info of everyone he knew at the party who might know my name so he could look me up on Facebook and the party invitation so he couldn’t contact the host. But now that he’d found me, he said we should grab a drink. And of course I said yes. This guy clearly must be awesome and have tons of amazing shit going on for him to ignore me—me!—for eight months. How could I say no?

And now we’re together. Together, together! I’ve finally met a guy that seems so high-value that I can make my friends jealous by telling them I’m dating him. The timing is especially interesting, because the day before I ran into Nick my parents had released their newest Idiotic Amy book, Idiotic Amy and the Guy She Had Sex With and Never Called Her Again.

Yup, Rand and Marybeth couldn’t resist. Anything I did in my life, no matter how embarrassing (actually the more embarrassing the better!) was fair game for the Elliott family cash cow, the Idiotic Amy book series. Idiotic Amy was a girl who looked suspiciously like me and did things suspiciously resembling things I did. The books had become wildly popular, selling tens of millions of copies and letting audiences worldwide know about all the idiotic things I’d done (well, that she’d done).

I’m sure you recognize the titles from your childhood bookcase: Idiotic Amy Spits Up Pureed Beets on the White Carpet, Idiotic Amy Wets The Bed, Idiotic Amy and the 72 on the Biology Quiz, Idiotic Amy’s Idiotic Phone Call #28 (they’ll release #29 the next time I say something on the phone they don’t agree with). But Idiotic Amy and the Guy She Had Sex With and Never Called Her Again is something new, because it’s the first book where Amy is an adult. You’d think that maybe once I got old enough that my life wasn’t giving them kid story fodder, they would’ve packed it in and put the kibosh on the series. But if you think that, you don’t know Rand and Marybeth.

To celebrate the release of Idiotic Amy and the Guy She Had Sex With and Never Called Her Again the publisher threw a release party. But the book business is so bad these days that publishers are throwing multiple parties at once to save money. The Idiotic Amy party was co-thrown with the party for a tell-all book written by a famous porn star. Many of the reporters covering the party didn’t know what the porn star looked like, and they would see some people interviewing me and assume I was the porn star. My party was therefore frequently interrupted with reporters asking me questions like:

“Is three dicks in your mouth really a big difference from two?”

“If you could have anal with any historical figure, who would it be?”

“How many gallons of jizz would you estimate you’ve swallowed?”

It wasn’t all bad sharing the party, though, because the other party let us have some of their mozzarella sticks shaped like cocks.

So if my parents turn everything embarrassing I do into a book, why do I keep telling them about the embarrassing things I do? Hey, my money’s got to come from somewhere, and it sure as hell beats going into an office.

I know my parents had been eagerly anticipating writing Idiotic Amy Spends Her 30th Birthday Alone Because She Can’t Find A Husband, but unfortunately for them I think they’re going to have to write a wedding novel instead. Because I’ve got a feeling Nick is THE ONE. Every guy I’ve dated besides Nick has turned me off because they liked me, wanted to hang out with me, were attentive toward me and cared about me. In Nick, I’ve finally found someone who doesn’t like me that much and in no way is attentive or cares about how I’m doing.

See, world? Being picky has paid off!