Don't

Don’t drink coffee, it’ll stunt your growth

Don’t eat candy, it’ll rot your teeth

Don’t watch TV, it’ll fry your brain

Don’t read in the dark, it’ll ruin your eyes

Don’t chew with your mouth open, it’ll disgust others

Don’t do-

-hey

Don’t interrupt, it’s rude

Don’t:

Jump on the bed, talk to strangers, use bad words, drink water before bedtime, climb on the furniture, run in the house, yell and scream inside, spit, eat raw eggs, put things that aren’t food in your mouth, walk up the slide, hit, kick, punch, be mean, steal, be a tattletale, eat cookies when no one’s watching, put your head inside a plastic bag, swim for thirty minutes after eating, talk about people behind their back, keep your place in books by folding over the corner of the page, put salt in someone’s milk, make people wait for you, be ungrateful,

Are you even listening to me? I bet you have no idea what I’m saying to you! Oh really? Well then repeat exactly what I just told you!

Don’t ever forget to write someone a thank-you-note, squirm when you’re supposed to sit still, walk inside without wiping your shoes on the mat, spoil your dinner, tease your sister, stay up after bedtime, wet the bed, forget to flush, pick your nose, wash a red sock with white shirts, forget to brush and floss, leave the phone off the hook, bang on pots and pans, eat something that’s been on the floor, litter, leave the lights on after you leave, touch the walls with dirty hands,

I swear you do that one more time and so help me god I’ll turn this car around right now and we’ll just go back home, do you hear me?!!?

Mister, don’t’ talk about things that are done in the bathroom, take advantage of those less fortunate than you, run with scissors, play in the mud, be fussy, refuse to take a bath, gargle your drink, throw rocks, stick gum under seats and tables, be impolite, feed the dog chocolate, hide your vitamins, go out when it’s cold without a coat, complain, repeat everything people say, be annoying, be obnoxious,

If they’ve told me once, they’ve told me a thousand times

Don’t you hide when it’s time to clean, put metal in the microwave, leave open jars in the fridge, hold it when you have to go, be naughty, sneeze on someone, cough without covering your mouth, walk with a sucker in your mouth, shoot rubber bands, use band-aids as a fashion accessory, pretend you’re sick when you’re not, touch light bulbs when they’re on, leave the milk out, bite jawbreakers,

And don’t be bad.

Just don’t fucking do it.

After the Show

Uh oh

…Swoon

No way of seeing

There are two

…Too

…Twoooooooo

The unpronounceables are friendly on this sweaty night of cold concrete in the bush where I lay my head in brambles behind the fallen corridor of splendor

Splendor has no place in this corridor of cold

my Peace wafts behind me

Like a sword in the night

A gale is with me Windless

We move at the same speed, perceivably motionless

And there’s a dog, and a house, and a wicked witch followed by a Tuscan raider at dawn.

It’s so nice to know I have soft

It’s so nice to know I have denim

It’s nice to know I have ears and eyes and all the senses to get where I’m going with my quick companion of silly names like “handahgooboo” and “Peter” and “Snugpugluffdrug”

Yes, it’s nice

And we’ll wrap that denim around our thoughts and let it take us to spigots

Unknown by many

Clouds neverending of blue and royal purple like that which only

Brake mechanics have seen…

A truly royal purple. All others are just waiting in line for the throne that’s been thrown out of their reach long ago by some mighty peon at “Crayola”

It’s been scientifically proven that you can’t make a decent candle from crayon shavings.

Even though that’s what I wanted to do.

“Pipe down” they said so it seemed obvious there was fleeing to be done, so it was executed.

And walking down that brick path, y’know?... just didn’t do it for me

And plus those bricks weren’t really the right shape anyways…

They tessellated off into the sunset and were never heard from again

Just like my crayon candle in the wind.

But the glass parts and I found soft and I found denim.

It sure is nice to know…

Borat

So I've finally just seen "Borat", the smash-hit, critically (and publicly) acclaimed film by Sacha Baron Cohen. A notable Jew from Britain. He is an actor and comedian. A nice Jewish boy.
Yeah, so anyway, Purple and I saw the movie, and I'm terrified. I'm absolutely terrified that this movie is going over so well across the entire nation.
Ok, so fuck me, I'm a sourpuss. Right, I didn't think it was funny.
Purple agrees with me. I feel that we may be alone in our dismay at this film.
Let me explain further:
This film was recommended to me by many people I hold in quite high esteem, as well as respect and enjoy the company of. They will remain nameless. I'm not here to tell people their opinions suck.
I went to the theater with quite high expectations. I understood that it would be low-brow humor, probably cheap laughs, but again, I hearkened back to those that I respected that recommended this film to me.
It was not the film itself that upset me so greatly, it was the audience reaction to the film. It seemed that throughout the entire movie, Purple and I were the only ones not laughing.
What on earth was it that everyone in this theater was finding funny, yet Purple and I were not?
It was not original, it was not insightful, it wasn't intelligent, and it certainly wasn't witty.
What was it that we were looking for? Lets talk about the opportunities he had.
The man had a goddamn interview with Fucking Alan Keyes! A fucking black republican!
He carried a rooster in a bag throughout the entire film and didn't make one single cock joke!
Ok, but so much for missed opportunities, there were other humor outlets, right? WRONG!
This film did nothing!
Now don't get me wrong, when it comes to absurdest culture and ridiculousness, I'm totally there, I'm all for it. But this wasn't absurdest, this was cheap, and it played off peoples inability to question their own faults. I felt that by laughing at this film, I would be ripping up all traces of moral character that I've fought so hard to gain throughout the years.

It had the audacity to attempt a dramatic plot, which if it had achieved what it was gnawing at, would have been entirely unneeded.

Halfway through, Purp leaned over to me and said "I feel no compulsion to stay"
However, I felt that to make an intelligent decision, I needed to see the entire film. I had to take something away from this! Certainly there must be something I could glean from this screening that would lead me to the reason why America laughs at mindless drivel.

Ok, I'm gonna get down off my high horse now and just speak my mind.
I'm really fucking scared that everyone laughed so much and I did not. Do my peers think that bad stereotypes are funny? That foreign people who cannot learn social customs should be laughed at?
Now it's obvious Borat isn't stupid, it's just humor, right, I shouldn't be so goddamn fucking uptight.
But the truth is, I'm really scared about this. The movie wasn't funny.
How do you have a naked fat guy in a movie and not make a single cock joke?!!? Honestly?!!?
It was disgusting, perverse, embarrassing, predictable, terse, and shortsighted.
I really can't put my finger on what it is that worries me so much.
I think it is perhaps that most of the public, as well as many people I like and respect enjoyed the movie so much, but neither Purple or myself gleaned a single redeeming quality from it.
I'm truly scared.

Animals with people faces!

I just thought I'd post a few graphics I've done of animals with faces of people. I'm always taking requests (I get the copyright) so if you like them, let me know!

(I've been into fish lately)

Master B

You’re clean. Honest. You’re clean.

It was Fred Browning’s big day. Today was the day that his ad firm was unveiling the “Chiquita” ad campaign. Fred was going to get the city, as he put it, “back on bananas”. Produce sales had dropped immensely in the last five years, and Fred was going to single-handedly bring them back up. He was refreshed, he was excited, and with his laptop and projector powering on, he was ready.

Fred had been working on this project for almost a year now. In front of him sat the CEO, the Chairman of the Board, and his entire ad and design team, as well as liaisons from all the major distributors in the area. And they were all looking at him. This ad campaign was going to make him fucking rich. No “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.

The CEO nodded to him. “Well gentlemen, I think we can begin.”

Fred began his presentation. He blazed through the intro, but on slide 8, the banana thumbnails had been replaced with something else… they looked like porn…

He clicked forward, no one saw it- he was ok. Right?

Someone in the back snickered. Shit! He kept talking. He couldn’t let that mess him up. Some goddamn intern was going to pay for that.

He clicked. PowerPoint closed, and up popped a folder holding files with names like “Boob32.jpg”, “Pussylckmeldy108.bmp”, and “Dicklab.gif”.

What the hell? This wasn’t his shit! More snickers from the back.

“Problem, Browning?” It was the CEO.

“Sorry, technical, just a moment”

“Well for Pete’s sake, Browning, you should have had I.T. take a look at your machine before you began.”

“Next time, Sir.”

PowerPoint was back. Fred’s brow was sweating. He clicked to bring up the ad proofs for “Bananas have Peelings, Too”, but instead a video began to play. It was dark.

“Browning, is this a joke?”

“Um, no sir, this isn’t my presentation!”

The video seemed to be of two young women engaged in sexual intercourse with a donkey.

“Browning, if you think this is funny, You’ve got… well, you’re wrong.”

“This isn’t a joke! Honestly! Something must have gotten on my computer!”

A voice from the back, “Why don’cha whack off at home! Don’t show us this smut!”

Deep in the Ethernet, there was a grumble. No one could hear it, but it was a grumble alright. It was a laugh- a deep, guttural laugh that came from a thick, sweaty, rotund beer belly that hadn’t moved in ages. It was the laugh of Master B.

On the screen one of the girls screamed “Oh! Give it to me! Give it to me good, you stubborn Ass!”

The donkey brayed with ecstasy.

Master B lives in the ether. The internet, the World Wide Web, anything with a connection is home to Master B. Passwords, Firewalls, Virus Scanners… they are nothing to Master B. He has all the keys, all the tools, he can get anywhere and do anything on the Ether, and he does.

Master B likes to embarrass. He loves to humiliate. He enjoys making people squirm uncomfortably, shift their eyes, and try to pull the attention away from themselves.

But Master B is always in control. He knows what you fear, and he turns your volume all the way up and broadcasts gay porn over the monitor.

He has two kinds of victims. There are those that are embarrassed, and those that are intrigued. He intrigues the frigid housewife, the twelve year old boy, the nighttime janitor, the quiet businessman. He embarrasses the high school principal, the female psych student, the advertising executive. Both goals are of equal importance, and Master B knows that there will never be a shortage of innocence or intrigue. There will always be those that hate what he forces on them, and there will always be those that love it. Such is the world. This is known by Master B.

Master B has no form, so they say. But some know Master B as a glob; a glob of a man who sits in his sweaty La-Z-Boy recliner before his computer. Now Master B was not always this way. Oh no. Master B was written many years ago by Garibald, a crazed tech major sitting in a computer lab at MIT. He was later expelled on the grounds that he was insane. But upon leaving, he brought Master B with him.

Master B was nothing then, just a silly little virus that wouldn’t harm a fli-adapter cable. But as Garibald worked and clicked away at the keyboard, he began to take shape. He began to take trips to the ether and back. Soon he was jumping to entire networks in just minutes. Master B grew and grew. Finally it became clear that if Garibald was to set Master B free, he would first need a home. So Garibald set him up with a cozy little port in an erotic domain, and Master B was quite happy. He began to eat. He ate the temporary internet files people discarded before their spouses returned, he ate the dirty e-mails, the passwords, the credit card numbers. Master B began to get fat. He rolled through his domain, placing a pop-up ad here, a trashy e-mail there, but then one day Garibald lost interest in him. Master B waltzed back onto his desktop, but he didn’t greet him. He sent Garibald an instant message, but he was ignored.

Garibald, it seemed, had been hired by a company to design software, and no longer cared for his obsolete projects.

Master B felt alone, he felt unloved. He drug his feet through the ports back to his domain, curled up into his La-Z-Boy and cried big wet tears that muddled with the IP address, mixing up connections in an adjacent database and ended up sticking $4.13 into some guy’s bank account in Portugal.

Garibald left, and Master B felt cold and alone for the first time in his existence.

He withered. He had nothing to live for. Now that Garibald was gone he no longer had someone to report his mischief to. He had nothing.

But then came the kicker. Master B awoke one morning to find that his domain had been deleted. He was without a home, the final insult. Garibald hd gotten rid of it during the night to free up some space on the mainframe, and Master B was left to fend for himself.

But this time, instead of crying, Master B got angry. He had been given the skills, he’d been given the tools, all he needed was to use them. His creator had destroyed him, and now Master B would destroy his creator.

It was relatively easy. He knew all of Garibald’s weaknesses, and just like that, he filled the new server with smut and traced it all back to Garibald. He lost his job in six hours.

Having ended his first victim with almost no effort expended, Master B began to toy with people. He filled his arsenal with files and in no time at all he was popping porn onto people’s computers and ruining relationships. He never looked back.

Master B enjoys porn. Smut. Perv stuff. He likes cock, cooter, cunt, cooch, clit, dick, shit, tits, hoochies, ass, carpet, hooters, scrotums… He embraces straight, gay, lesbian, bi, bestiality, furries, showers of all kinds, gaspers, necrophiliacs, dentrophiliacs, pedophiles, technosexuals, teratophiles, katoptronophiliacs, everything! Master B loved it all and embraced it all. He puts these things on peoples computers when they aren’t looking, and he enjoys nothing more than to watch what happens.

Master B was waddling across the ether when he came across a sobbing victim. The man was huddled at his desk with big wet tears streaming from his eyes. Master B loved pushing his victims farther into sorrow, so he began a download and suddenly the man’s screensaver showed several couples fornicating and vomiting all over each other. Master B chuckled. Most people were revolted by Roman Showers, and this man was no different. A giant grimace appeared on his face and he began to click, escape, shut down—

No! It would not work! Master B backed off for a moment, and the screen returned to normal. The man wiped his tears away. His office was empty. It was very late, not even the night janitor was in. He was working on an ad campaign to replace one he’d lost earlier. Master B prodded again, a video of some “Furries”. Two mascots, a bear and a pig, were groping the other’s missing naughty parts. The man looked quizzically and began to laugh.

“No, that wouldn’t do” thought Master B. He changed it… Foot fetish, hand fetish, leg fetish… the man was dumbfounded, he seemed almost content to watch Master B scroll through his list of revulsions. What else could he do to press this man’s buttons?

Hybristophilia! …no, that wouldn’t do, all he had were several pictures of people holding guns and giving each other sultry looks. Oh, yes, he had just the thing! Mysophilia. Up came a picture of a woman shoving a conifer sapling up her shaved vagina. It was working. Master B was back on top as the man grimaced once more and tried to click away the image. But Master B wasn’t finished, oh no, he was feeling malevolent this eve, and he was going to end this man. A few clicks, a connection here and there, he began to inch onto the man’s motherboard.

Then boom! Algolagnia! Videos of women cutting off their fingers during intercourse! Faunoiphilia! Naked mole rats having sex! Pyrophilia! A young boy was setting his rock-hard genitalia on fire!

The man was repulsed, he was distraught! He jumped up to make sure no one had entered. But Master B knew there was nothing the man could do. Control Alt Delete? HA! That hadn’t worked since Windows 3.1! He was more interested now, inching more and more of himself onto the man’s computer.

Vorarephilia! Women skewered naked being roasted over flames!

The man was beginning to panic, and Master B was laughing.

Macrophilia! A man receiving oral sex from a 700lb woman!

He was typing furiously! His face was turning red! He began to whimper! It was time! Master B broke out the big guns! He pulled out videos! Turned the volume all the way up!

Klismaphilia! 60-year-old men getting enemas and screaming in pain and ecstasy!

BDSM! People with limbs cut off, vampires fucking, and men with oversized libidos thrusting them into eye sockets!

There were screams, shouts, gasps of pain! Orgasms of every shape and size! The volume was so loud, the man was afraid people on the neighboring floors might be able to hear, but he was powerless to stop it!

Murders! Slayings! Fantasized Rape! Sex with Children! Women consuming feces!

And Master B pulled his whole body onto the man’s circuit board, total control of the shaking figure in front of him!

Finally there were women and men shoving cockroaches into every orifice! They screamed and screamed and screamed and—

The plug dangled from the man’s hand. He lifted the CPU, walked down the hall, and dropped it into the incinerator, where it blazed in a green flame for a brief moment.

He stepped back, breathing heavily, looked around, then walked back to his desk.

He pulled out his laptop, logged onto the network, and checked his e-mail.

Everything was fine.

He’d just gotten a virus, that’s all, everything was fine.

…for now.

oom-pa-pa

I have work again!
Yes, my mood is beginning to improve, because many interesting things are happening. I've got a gig next week, and I'm also working on remodeling my friend Yuri Lane's bathroom. (yes, I know it's not glamorous, but it pays well and he's the shit) I actually enjoy doing manual labor. It's fun, plus I can make gorilla faces while lifting heavy objects such as a clawfoot bathtub forged from wrought Iron! (Ungaya!)
Oh, and I'm finally buying that tuba I've been pining for. It's a great little half-size BBb I found out in elmhurst and it's totally affordable. It sounds like heaven and i do believe it's the new love of my life. I'll be playing with Mucca-Pazza (just sub and backup at first), which will be dandy, but I've decided on something else as well.
I'm going to start my own marching band. I need collaborative musicians. So my next quest is the search for them. I shall seek creators.
Holy fuck, I just realized the time. Fucktard.

You wake up with no arms

So I finally created a MySpace account for my music. It's under my DJ name (Aaroneous Truths).
Thus far the only song posted is "You wake up with no arms"

So I was jamming a couple of years ago with a guy named Noam Katz, when this melody began to wheedle it's way into my brain.
You know when you wake up and your ams have been under your pillow, and the pressure from your head has slowed the blood flow and removed all feeling from them?
That's this song.

Noam-- No-Arms... yeah... you get it.
The song can be found here:
You wake up with no arms

Please enjoy. More to come soon.
-A

The Shoe Tree

My dearest Yossarian,

I haven’t written in weeks and for that I am sorry, but I figured, why write if you don’t have anything to say? Hence my silence. But now I’m writing you.

Last week Purple and I decided that to celebrate the end of finals, we’d finally break open the Fifty Sack he’d brought up from Texas last month. So, being us, we had to search for a suitable spot to hit this dubage.

There was a dirt road about a mile down from Pisarik’s stables. We decided to check it out.

It’s about 7:30 and the sun is beginning to set as we venture onto the road and into the cornfields. No end in sight.

We walked for maybe half an hour, forty five minutes, when suddenly the road turns and just stops. There’s nothing left but corn.

“uh… what now?”

Purp (being Purp) says “dude, get on my shoulders”.

So I climb up there and as I poke my head up above the cornstalks, I see this tree in the distance. It’s gigantic. It looks like an apple tree, or maybe pear, either way it definitely has fruit.

“Dude, we totally have to get high there”

“Man, it’s like instant munchies!”

“I know man”

We run and after several minutes, the corn parts and there it is. It must be a hundred and fifty feet tall! In the setting sun I can just barely make out what kind of fruit it is…

“man, it looks like bananas or something…”

“Dude, they’re shoes! There are like a hundred pairs of shoes in this tree!”

“Fuckin A man.”

I start to climb up and grab one.

“Man, hold it.”

And he hands me one of two 8-inch joints he’s prepared for the evening. He pulls out his football shaped lighter.

“L’Chaim, man”

“L’Chaim. To life”

Our joints crinkle as we toast, I take a hit and pull down a pair of bright white ice skates.

I cough “dude, there’s a note in here!”

He’s pulling from the joint, the end cherry red. “Well what’s it say?”

I pull a tightly rolled piece of paper from a skate.

Lydia,

So it’s come to this, has it? As I look around myself I can see there’s no turning back. This decision’s been quite a long time in the contemplating. Why the hell are you so stubborn? It’s really a moot point, but I can ask it again, can’t I?

By the time you read this, I’ll be long gone from here. Say goodbye to Caleb for me. And tell him something, make something up. I don’t want him thinking his father was a coward.

“The ink’s run after that”

“That’s all it is?”

I take a hit. This is heavy shit. “Why would someone put a suicide note in a pair of ice skates?”

“Dude, it’s not a suicide note. The guy’s just leaving.”

“Man, it’s totally a suicide note.”

“Don’t buy it for a second”

I unroll the note in front of him as he pulls from the joint.

“It says ‘I don’t want him thinking his father was a coward.’ Dude, this guy’s not coming back. He hung himself from this tree!”

Purp turns to me like I’m full of shit. “No he did not!”

“Yes he did man. Listen, it’s this dad whose gotten in trouble with the mob or something, he decides that rather than wait for them to come gully him or something-

“Gullying is what pirates do, not the mob”

“-fine, then concrete shoes or something. Anyways, he kills himself to save his wife and kid.”

“You’re full of shit”

“Listen man, maybe it’s the ‘baked goods’ talking, but I think that’s the story.”

“Dude… we’re the baked goods.”

“I’ll toast to that” We crinkle. “Pull another one down, see if any more have notes”

He jumps and misses the branch. He grunts as he hits the ground.

“I can’t reach it man”

“Well that’s cuz you’re a goddamn pussy”

“Fuck you, Pussy McPusserface”

“It take one to know one”

He jumps again, he grabs hold, but only with one hand, and you know Purp, he’s a big guy. The bark rips off and he falls back down.

“Shit man, I think I messed up a joint.”

“Looks alright to me, still lit.”

“No man, I mean my shoulder or something…”

“…oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I take a hit.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He takes a hit

In shaking the branch he managed to knock down pair of old Adidas. He picks them up.

“Nother note”

“read it”

Dear Miguel,

Fuck off, you lying sack of shit. I hate you so much I’m going to shoot myself.

BLAM!

Lisa

“What the hell?”

He takes a hit. “What the fuck kind of a suicide note is that?” I say. He sucks the smoke back in after exhaling. I’m starting to feel a little baked by now. He’s making smoke rings like a goddamn expert.

“I’m telling you man, these aren’t suicide notes. That one was a vent.”

“a what?”

“A vent. People vent when they’re angry but they don’t actually do anything. That’s that.”

“Whatever. I’m getting another” I start to get up.

“Wait man, we have to toast first.”

“To what?”

“Um… To Miguel, the lying sack of shit”

“Cheers” We crinkle and pull. I cough a bit. My throat feels hot, like it’s getting smaller. I take a drink from my Nalgene. It’s apple juice. We always drink apple juice when we get high. It’s like ambrosia.

I start climbing.

“get one from up high, man”

“Why?” I shout down.

“They’ve been there longer”

“What makes you say that?

“String Theory”

“Bullshit”

“Yeah, whatever, just get one from up high”

“Purple! We’re both high!”

“Very true my Jewish amigo! Very defi-totally true.”

“Like… I’m in the tree… and you’re on the ground, but we’re both fucking high!”

“I am the monarch of the sea!”

“You and your goddamn HMS Pinafore”

“I’ll cover you with British Tar!”

I’m about halfway up by now. Climbing a tree while high is surprisingly difficult. I’m reaching out but these branches are so interesting. I spot a speckled moth, which is like the coolest thing on the planet, by the way, because it is a living thing that blends in with another living thing just to keep other living things from seeing it and eating it. It like totally trusts the tree with it’s life…

But I make it to the top as Purple’s singing “Hardly EVER!!! I’m hardly ever sick at SEEEEAA!”

“Man! Sketchers! Taste the rainbow!” I grasp my pair of shoes that I have climbed so high to find.

“That’s skittles, pooper!” He shouts up. He’s laying on the ground now, looking at his hands.

“My bad!” and as I am holding on to the shoes, the branch beneath me suddenly gives out and the only thing holding me up are the shoes. “Shit! I think I’m hanging here!”

“don’t hang yourself man, you have too much to live for!”

“No, I’m hanging by the shoes, I’m hanging by a thread. My branch broke!”

“Dude, Jump into my arms! I’ll catch you!” He’s on his back with his arms stretched out.

“I don’t think so, Purpetraitor. I think I might die.”

“You will not die.”

I swing. It’s my only hope I go back and forth and back and forth until I’m finally on a branch that I think may have been there all along, but was just feeling sneaky and crept up to save me at the last minute. I grab the shoes and swing down like the monkeys I’m descended from.

“got a note”

“read read read read read read read”

First I must make funny faces. So I do. For several minutes. Then I unfold the note and read loudly and clearly.

First of all, I want to say I’m sorry for showing up yesterday and I’m sorry for trusting your father for so many years. I thought he could help, but now I realize that the only one who can help me is me. Sharon, I know you will go on to bigger and better things. You are the one true love of my life and for that I have been ever grateful. You are a remarkable human being and you will create wonderful things in your lifetime. I want you to learn and to not make the same mistakes I did. I have plenty of life insurance (that’s your father’s doing), which will help you get on your way. Plus, with me gone you won’t have to pay my health insurance anymore. You should take a nice vacation. Go somewhere with palm trees. Get the hell out of Iowa, Sharon. Just get the hell out. I want you to take Mickey and find him a good home. Some place with a lot of space. He’s still young. He needs places to run. He’s in the den in his Kennel. Don’t worry, he has plenty of food.

I know you want to know why, and I can’t really find the words to say. It just feels right. I’ve been living in a world of wrong and finally something feels right, so I’m gonna take that path and see where it takes me. I’m sorry I won’t get to see you again. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart. Don’t show this to your father, and don’t let him see me, please.

With all the love in the world,

-Mom

“Fuck.”

“Fuck is right. What a buzz killer.” He’s sitting up now.

“I mean… fuck.”

“I wonder if these all have notes in them”

“I think we should come back and investigate this further once we are in a state of mind that is less high and more sobriety”

“You mean when we’re sober”

“Yeahhhhh…”

He points his finger up. “I have an idea”

“What’s your idea?”

“We should come back with Yosie”

So, Yos, I’m formally inviting you to come back with us when you visit in two weeks to figure out the deal with this shoe tree. We’ve decided not to come to any conclusions until you have come to the scene and discussed it with us. I mean, honestly I know you’d totally want in on this. So write me back and we’ll check this out.

Hope all is well with you.

Word up, Dawg,

-Aaroneous