There's a taste in my mouth as desperation takes hold

How did I end up here, chasing a dream that has no determined end? Was I saddled with psychosis after relocating to the middle of nowhere? Am I about to become Leatherface?

My local PI said you have a valid PO box and I’ve been tempted to send a letter, one that I’ve composed dozens of times and never feel satisfied with it enough to commit it to paper. And like this entire endeavor, uncertain that my half hour of intentional penmanship will result in anything.

Even though I have a phone number for Merlyn Doppelhammer (your dad, right?), I haven’t had the nads to call him out of the blue and run my spiel by him. “We were friends while I worked at the newspaper and she encouraged me to write a novel that she loved the premise for. I finished it and I want to send her a signed copy.”

Maybe that sounds too much like a skip tracer scam but dad has to know his daughter loves literature—you’re probably the one of the most well-read friends I’ve ever had—and so my bullshit story isn’t far-fetched at all, I’d come across much more genuine than some rotten nutsack bill collector.

As you saw in last night’s post, I’m pretty good with paper and a Pilot Precise V5, the perfect pen for my tiny script. Have fun reading my 10/3-10/7 entries. Really, have fun!

If you were reading this, these wasted electrons sprayed across the screen like the remnant of a hefty sneeze, I wouldn’t need to sit down and actually move a pen over paper—it seems so *shiver* archaic.

Jk, I honestly miss handwritten letters, the epistolary art that was pretty much killed by email. There’s something to that, mentioned in what I composed on Word so I could transcribe to the lovely stationery purchased just for this letter. To wit:

 You wrote a letter to me once and in it, you described a vision you’d had, looking across a silver lake surrounded by a stark white landscape. Across the lake, you said you could see a shadowy silhouette of a person who seemed unaware that you were watching. You knew that shadow was me, you wrote, and that you didn’t know how to get to me.

At the time when I first read it, I didn’t understand the extent of your frustration and pain. Now, it’s fully comprehended, a shared misery that took over ten years to grasp.

 Feels like there’s a lot packed into those sentences but then, I’m biased. It’s the same bias that makes me buy Powerball tickets and make 3/6/9 a daily ritual, a kind of Nam-myoho-renge-kyo done with a marble composition book.