I am sorry I spray-painted your cat, and I hope Nibbles can find it in his heart to forgive me. I know it will never go back to how it was, but, alas, that’s my own doing.
It seems, Doug and Kathy, that you are finally getting your way, and the city is removing our ragtag troupe of ghouls and misfits from our dilapidated crashpad, a once charming bungalow conveniently juxtaposed betwixt the middle school and 7-11. Were you aware that particular 7-11 is the only one in the area with a still-functioning payphone? Adding to the convenience store’s charms, and, dare I say, convenience, Taco Bob just “modified” the phone to allow us to place outgoing calls, gratis. The ingenuity amphetamine-induced manic insomnia/hyperfocus occasionally leads to is truly astounding, and surely beats the constant sensation of walking in to spiderwebs unobservable to others. I am aware how our curb alert plummeted after we ripped the hedges out, but shadow people and cops were using the narrow stip of yard between the bay window and my nearly disassembled Pontiac Sunbird as a staging area to plot against us.
I beseech your patience throughout our disgraceful eviction process. Our power will be cut, and we will start using generators for the duration of our drugged reverie, which is usually approximately 60 hours for a seasoned tweaker. The fuzz will inevitably be called due to the noise of our generators and fornicating by a concerned neighbor (perhaps you again, Kathy? Are you sure you’re not a cop? I ask all the time when you’re watering your cacti, and you always say no, but I’d like to think I’m wearing you down), upon which we will be in the dark all the time. This will no doubt be creepier. We will stare, unblinking at Doug as he rides by on his mountain bike, which will make him turn around after going a minute or two up the road for fear of Kathy and Brayden’s safety. I admit, I would too. That staring gentleman, I don’t even know that dude, but I don’t get a good vibe from him. He survived being kicked out of the Aryan Brotherhood (or so his tattoos and brands say), so he’s got that going for him. We call him Scorched Earth, and he is a viking. I suspect he may also be a federal agent, and a high-ranking Freemason.
You may have noticed I took this home over last may from my deceased mother last March. Mom’s hoarding was no secret, and I admit, being surrounded by her stuff brought me comfort, so I added to it at the speed of meth. These treasures will cover the yard for a few weeks, and we will appear to have a permanent yardsale. It probably will be. Doug will simmer with resentment as he drives past the house at 5:15 a.m., seeing luminaries of the greater metropolitan area’s underworld pawing through vhs copies of Space Jam and Insane Clown Posse memorabilia. Doug will lament how he has to go to work every damn day of his damn life, and how he bought a home in a “nice” neighborhood only to be shoehorned in with a growing gaggle junkie scumbags. Look, I get it. Do feel free to stop by- I could certainly need the cash, and imagine the Pinteresting things you can do with suitcases of wire hangars from Kim’s Dry Cleaners. You remember Kim’s; nice place near the lumberyard, mysteriously burned down, suspected to be drug related, and arson, and was definitely drug-related arson? It’s a piece of local history, Kathy. You’re a quarter Korean, right? Scorched Earth says so. He’s usually right about these kinds of things. Be sensible!
Aaaaanywho, I’m going to wrap this up, I have lamps and framed family portraits to throw off the roof while shouting conspiracy theories and blaming my life taking a wrong turn when my dad didn’t send me to Space Camp, after he and mom got divorced. I like the connection a hand-written, crazy letter fosters, it’s all too uncommon these days. Kids with their twitter, and metric system conversion, and sex offender registry apps on their phone. The world is getting to be a smaller, more interconnected place than ever. Sorry it took so long, I had to transcribe it from the self-developed hieroglyphics I typically write in to keep Taco Bob from stealing my ideas from my diary and selling them. He’s crafty, and he’d be able to find investors to back building my awesome invention prototypes and see them to market.
This is going to get worse before it gets better, but to echo those viral videos my PO made me watch, #itgetsbetter. Oh, I do savor the naughty irony of handwritten hashtags.
Julius Romulus “Drano” Barfolino III
p.s.- I spraypainted Nibbles because he said my magic tricks were poorly executed and my setups mundane. He later went on to defeat me in an emcee battle in front of my homies, which embarassed me, especially since it made me seem whack in the penetrating, prepetually half-lidded eyes of our reigning champion Petty Theft, not named for the nature of his crimes (which are severe, and considerably not petty), but because he looks freakishly like Tom Petty, if Tom Petty dressed like Richard Petty.
p.p.s.- It doesn’t matter that he may have been right, MC Drano don’t take no shit from no fancy, judgemental cat.
p.p.p.s.- When I asked you for money last month it really was for the bus, until it became for a teener of the toadiest crank I’ve copped since New Orleans, whilst working on my thesis. Go Brown Pelicans!