Adele sings I'm Sorry

This week, the Evil Genie answers celebrity questions. But leave a wish in the comments and next week he might answer!

Adele wishes: I just wish for my ex to apologize to me the way I deserve.

The Evil Genie Replies: Oh, Adele. Oh, sweetie. Oh, girl. I know you do. We all know you do.

You’re sitting in your studio, pen touching paper, but nothing comes out. You’re starting to worry that your lovely relationship with your lovely-looking boyfriend “Swampy” is not giving you the material you need. You’re happy, you’re content, you’re calm and at peace, and you never have rage blackouts and wake up to piles of devastating lyrics and fully mixed tracks scientifically calibrated to induce heartbreak. Plus, nothing suitable seems to rhyme with Swampy (“Pompeii?” “Frompy?” “Lomprey?”). You stare listlessly at the paper when suddenly (out of the blue, uninvited) there he is, in your space. The ex to end all exes.

You make a strange, strangled yelp of a noise, and drop your pen. “Adele,” he begins, stepping towards you, “Words can’t even begin to express how wrong I was. I was the wrongest. I was the wrongest person to ever be wrong in the history of wrong people in this wrong world and you and your voice are the beacon of light and right that guides us all into the future. You are wonderful and amazing and the talent of a generation and the creator of musical perfection and the reason the Mayans were wrong about 2012. I am so deeply sorry for everything I did and everything I didn’t do and everything I thought about doing but didn’t do and everything I didn’t think about doing but did anyways and everyone I knew before and after and especially during and everywhere that I went or wanted to go and every time you felt the slightest twinge of unhappiness and everything, all of it, everything, everywhere, every last bit of all the things all all all. Sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

“I don’t think you understand, when I say that I was wrong I mean that no mistake has ever been more mistaken…” He continues on in this fashion for hours, detailing the fish of regret in his ocean of remorse, naming each individual contrite star in his galaxy of rue, describing each grain of sorry sand in the sad Death Valley desert of his woe.

“Stop,” you say, “I’m hungry, and I have to use the bathroom.”

He follows closely behind you, continuously apologizing and synonyming and waxing rhapsodic about your virtues. You give him a sidelong glance, but let him continue. He stands outside the bathroom door, talking all the time, and in the kitchen he keeps lamenting while you make yourself a sandwich and pour a soda.

The Ex-to-the-ex-power doesn’t stop his speech to sleep or eat. All the while he looks deeply into your eyes and meaningfully feels every word. Your handlers are worried, but you assure them that you are receiving exactly what you asked for. The sound of his voice apologizing becomes nothing more than a buzz to you, a constant, mosquito-esque hum, but others are still thrown by his constant presence. When you record new songs in the studio, his voice can be heard in the background, mumbling unendingly. This prompts some groups to suspect that you are encouraging devil worship, as he can be heard explaining the seven circles of personal hell he simultaneously dwells in when he thinks of how he hurt you.

Having the ex around you day and night, even as docile with bitter nostalgia as he is, begins to cause friction in your relationships: Swampy departs for murkier pastures, your friends don’t want to be near the scumbag still, and your collaborators can’t seem to get past your muse’s new ceaseless contributions. What’s more, 23’s new tracks like “Much Better Off” and “Closure” aren’t really inspiring the same critical and fan response that 21 received. Your albums aren’t selling and your tours aren’t packed and the Grammys forget to invite you for 2013. Still, his conscience is not unburdened. The final straw: your already famously-strained voice is forced to be marginally ever-louder to be heard above his constant din and finally, weakly, it gives out. You are silenced.

The man whose carelessness and rashness broke your heart and built your career has managed to undo everything, literally everything, that he created. He adds that to his list of regrets.

  • Peachy Carnahan

    This is a touching tale about the vicissitude of fame. We should all learn from this, put down our pens, stop writing that anguished song about our last bad breakups, and take up beatboxing instead.

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