WELL: As soon as they lift the out-of-doors human ban on the Bay Area, hopefully by next March (hah!!), I’m gonna get me a death tattoo and a black car and go to that strange sad place and start working on my PI license. Really!
I’ve been writing some letters destined for NYC and LA and Milwaukee and even San Francisco. I just got to get my hands on some stamps so I can get them to where they’re going. And these here letters are in cute pastel pink and purple envelopes I bought from a stationary store on College Ave. in Berkeley one fall day not too long ago. They’re so beautiful but I’d rather my friends have them. I’m running a lean operation these days and anyway these fine individuals could use some words in a nice envelope right about now. That and, c’mon, you don’t buy an envelope to keep it, for god’s sake. Get real.
Until I can fulfill my dream of living alone in a gloomily-lit studio apartment in a weird neighborhood and in a weird city, seated before a stupidly huge TV with purple-ringed eyes and with a thermos of green tea on a little Muji table at my knees, I must keep writing things . . . because what the hell else am I really good for anymore, if not this.
Amissa, I miss you . . . and you too, Anatalia. I got something for both of you. Assuming the US Postal Service doesn’t sink into the abyss like the rest of human civilization seems destined for, I reckon you’ll have something in your respective mailboxes soon.