DISPATCH: Letters From Evil Mammoth, Number Six

SUBJECT: Trust no one, but do not be suspicious.
DATE: June 19, 2007

Howdy Bones,

Technically, there should be a comma between the words "howdy" and "Bones," but quite frankly, I thought it looked a little cramped. So we'll just forego grammatical propriety for now because it has been largely ostracized as a Public Menace and a threat to the stability of capitalism in the 21^st century, which is enough justification not to ruffle the feathers of postal censors who will, no doubt, thumb through this letter before it reaches you out in the land between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains.

It is foolish, I know, but we live in nonsensical times, Bones, and reason does not appear to be in style these days. We are, rather, obsessed with manufactured threats like Random Terrorism. The spiritual economy is being saturated with all sorts of bad rubbish I don't have the heart to write about at the moment, and if I did (supposing the aforementioned censors got their hands on this), there is a decent chance that I would be put in stocks for the day and marched around the streets of Naperville while young children threw rotten lettuce and mangled Korans at me. In these yuppie suburbs, the two are very nearly considered one and the same--useful only to insult and further degrade citizens who refuse to bow to the conventional wisdom of the generation, which includes among other things, the willingness to be perfectly mundane.

We have always been afraid of The Other, old friend, and I see little evidence of an impending paradigm shift in this regard.

But let's not weigh this letter down with half-assed admonitions or regurgitated political slogans from the Far Left, where I have set up ideological base camp. That sort of thing would be boring, and indeed, might bring to light past disagreements that highlight certain impasses in our respective characters. Mind you, I am loath to count your personal philosophies against you. It would mean harboring the same intolerance for which I have rebuked organized religion as well as the manager of a popular piano bar in Wicker Park. According to him, a flannel shirt and Vans are not formal attire. I remember screaming some lewd condemnation at him in a fit of drunken rage and then growing exceedingly nervous that I was dumb enough to display such high-decibel candor on a crowded street in the United States of America. I ducked into the nearest alley, dug up a rusty razor from a dumpster, and proceeded to shave the beard off my face in an attempt to disguise myself at least modestly before venturing out into the open again. With my luck, they had probably already run my biometrics via satellite and beamed the information to every CPD squad car in a ten-block radius.

Then again, you and I see eye-to-eye on most of the important things, and I have always enjoyed our random phone conversations. There is a tendency to lose touch, some inherent entropic[1] inclination that drives friends apart when the miles between them are too many and the winds are whirling. Or perhaps I am simply a contemptible ass. As Monty pointed out at the wedding shower, he must always be the one to contact me, which means I bear the blame in this case. I reneged on our agreement to remain in touch.

Curses! A thousand bloody plagues! If there is one thing I despise, it is being proven the villain, even in the mildest of situations.

Well, shit.

I initially interrupted my work to tap out this letter with a great deal of inertia, but it seems my reserves are running low at the moment. I haven't eaten all day, and this morning, I wrenched my back hauling a large wooden table into my house. I did it by myself, much to the surprise of Fräulein and my roommates, but I have gained ten pounds and probably some muscle to go along with it as well as a great deal of ferocity. But I am not invincible and must avoid falling to hubris as I have done in the past lest such delusions lead me into waiting jaws--enemies unforeseen due to self-love and foggy vision.

And yes, if the crick in me back is an indication of anything, I should be cautious when it comes to physical exertion. A few fleeting moments of virility and optimism will not immediately counteract the effects of nearly two decades of pessimism, depression, and self-defeat. Baby steps, right? I will take baby steps before I muster enough strength to accept the world's submission.

It's worse than I thought. Think no less of me or my waning sensibilities. We will be swallowed much as anything else and feel the same demonic teeth tear us asunder that have torn all of our faithless predecessors.

Tread lightly, my good man, and shield yourself from prying eyes.

Your Friend,

[1] Microsoft Word does not recognize "entropic" as a legitimate word, which only solidifies, in my mind, its endless capacity for electronic retardation. We humans must never put unending faith in the machines we create or in the programs we write for those machines.