Letter to a dear cousin...

Dear Cousin,
Today I graced my countenance with a beauty mark. Not in vanity or in virility, but to hide the sore left on the corner of my grin from the appliance of salicylic acid; that due to the location and appearance of which suggests foul oral behavior. I prefer it better the public look at me with the thought, “this man is surely a narcissistic madman with ill thoughts,” than the alternative: “This man is a herpes-infested charlatan wretch. With ill thoughts.” I wore the tiny blot proudly in the cafeteria while I enjoyed a particularly delightful bowl of tomato bisque.

Speaking of the cafeteria, it is my philosophy that the hired staff of said locale be best kept on their toes at all moments. Never an idle moment for the underpaid or underlaid. I saw a young woman of large proportions standing behind the counter, doing nothing of hospitable significance, staring at my fellow students and I as we filled our trays with the day’s culinary fare, an air of discomfort radiating from her idiotic gawk, her mouth agape. I demanded she fetch me some sweet and sour dressing for my salad immediately and she scurried forth on the task bestowed.

I was courteous about it of course, not wanting to come off as mean or dispiriting, but firm nonetheless. Her thin-boned coworker watched the whole scenario, and so I suggested she help her in my aid. Soon nearly the entire kitchen staff- 6 or 7 in all, including the manager- was frantically searching around to where they may have placed the illusive sweet and sour. Ten minutes past before I was granted my request. Though I may have acted a smidge sour, the outcome was certifiably sweet.

How are things in your neck of the tundra? What little we convey in our texts together is hardly enough to develop an image of the lives we lead. I imagine you spend your days building large, elaborate forts of piled silk pillows, wearing long flowing robes and carrying a glass scepter, threatening any who enter aforementioned pillow castle with penalty of castration and penectomy before an audience of Filipino orphan boys; bastards doomed to follow in their image. As I am a horrible predictor of human nature and societal tendencies, I will dismiss this notion as a figment of my own insecurities, and draw this letter to an abrupt close with the phrase, “Build it and they will Cum.”
Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar