Page
Blogs
Fiction
Home
Interviews
Biography
FAQ
Art Gallery

So what... did I say something to offend your delicate sensibilities in my last letter?

I mean, it's been a while. No word.

Maybe you'd prefer a guy who harbored deep-seated hatred towards you? Well, you know, I'm not your average guy. And, you, my dear, were a most worthy adversary. It's hard to hate someone whose mind I respect so much, dig? Although I have to say I don't get what's up with you and this Michael guy. Doesn't seem like you to put up with someone who treats you bad. Dump him, I say. But then maybe I'm biased....

PAUSE.

Uh... you did write me, didn't you? I mean, I didn't imagine that, did I?

Hell, you know, it gets so hard to tell what's real and what's my imagination these days. Plus, I wouldn't put it past the Powers That Be to mess with my mind and send me fake letters from you. You know, try a little psychological mumbo-jumbo with this whole letter thing to see if, I dunno, I might become a productive citizen with the proper conditioning. Yeah, like that's likely.

It's bad enough that I already feel like my namesake in a maze when the doors start opening. I hate the idea that, you know, I just go when someone somewhere pulls the strings. Just yesterday, decided to skip a meal. The door openned and I just stayed put, staring at it. I don't know what I was hoping for. Nobody came. No voice boomed out telling me I'd better go eat or else. It just stayed open for sixty-three seconds (I counted), and then slid shut. Then a couple of hours later my stomach started to growl.

I thought about starting a hunger strike. I figured maybe that could get me in the infirmary or something. At least that would be a change of scenery.

That idea lasted about twelve hours before I gave up. I hate being hungry. I used to be hungry all the time, and let me tell you straight up, that sucked. Hard core.

Yeah, yeah. I'll spare you the gruesome details of my life on the streets, shall I?

You're probably one of those people like that dreadfully cheerful camp counselor they sicked on me at Sing-Sing who wanted me to get in touch with my anger the around my social-economic class. I don't know what was up with this guy, but he was always going on about "the Man" and how the economic strata into which I was so unfairly born damaged my ability to become a fully actualized citizen. The dude was such a jargon-head that you needed a glossary for all the Marxist concepts he tried to lay on me. I'll tell you what I told him--only without the expletives--and that is: I never let any of that crap hold me back from what I wanted.

Yeah, okay, sure. My first serious crack netted me free rent. I won't deny that I wouldn't have cloned that credit counter if I hadn't been on the slightly desperate side of homeless.

But I don't think being born on the streets of Ciaro made me stupid. If I was going to get all daily-affirmations about it, I'd say that thing about making lemonade. If life gives you crap, use it to redecorate. That's what I say.

Hey... the little thingy hasn't started beeping at me yet. I'll bet I've been yacking for a good ten minutes.

Huh.

Lends credance to my thearpy theory. I'll bet if I go on about my misspent youth they'll let me blather on as long as I'd like.

Let's experiment, shall we?

END TRANSMISSION

next