correspondence

This is a letter to you.  Yes, you, with the slack-jawed look on your face.  You, who are probably, at this very moment, as you read these words, scratching your ass.  This is for you.

This is not the letter, however, but merely a precursor, if you will; a mere message of preparation for the letter which follows.  You will know when the letter begins, I am fairly certain of that.

This will be no ordinary letter, mind you.  Not like the letter from grandma, or the kind you get when your wife leaves you, or a notice of past due amount from your credit card company, or even the officious type of letter you received a couple of weeks ago telling you that you don’t qualify for federal student aid because you totally forgot to sign up for selective service when you were eighteen, even though you swear you remember doing it.  No, this is quite a different kind of letter.  You have never been the recipient of this kind of letter.  I know this because I haven’t written it to you until now.  It is quite possible, in fact, that after I write it, you may still not be such a recipient, even after you’ve recieved the damned thing.  I’m not sure, as I haven’t decided yet.

But, before we begin, I might go ahead and explain a few things regarding the nature of this correspondence.  I might also suddenly turn into a giant tulip, as well, but for simplicity’s sake, we’ll go ahead with the former and forego the latter.

First off, it should be known, and inevitably will be, that the contents of the message below represents a matter of extreme confidentiality.  This is not to say that it compares to doctor-patient confidentiality, for instance, as I am no doctor and you are certainly not my patient, nor are you necessarily a doctor, and, even if you were, I wouldn’t be your patient.  Reason being, I hate doctors, and you probably do, too, so why would you even suggest such a ridiculous idea in the first place?

Do not show the following letter to anyone.  Should a second pair of eyes gaze upon it, it may very well mutate into a sex-crazed gremlin made of paper and glue, whose only purpose in life is to repeatedly rape your electrical outlets and assault your household pets with a tuning fork.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Understand that, quite simply, this letter speaks to a subject of relative sensitivity, not entirely like the sensation you feel when you stub your toe, nor can it be labeled “sensitive” in the manner comparable to matters of national security. 

At the same time, you shouldn’t be alarmed by all of this, lest your attention wander while you read the letter.  Do not worry yourself unnecessarily, as it shouldn’t shock to any great amount.  Rather, it may, in fact, cause you to feel a warm and cozy sensation, much in the way that witnessing a brutal homicide would totally not.

All of that said, and hopefully understood (as much as anyone could possibly understand it), let the letter begin.  Remember, this is for you.

August 23, 2008

Dear You,

Allow me to take this opportunity to announce the following:  I am so completely full of crap that it’s almost not funny.

Sincerely,

Me (and by way of extension, You, too, most likely)