Saturday, March 12, 2011


Dear Dad,

Writing Camp is going great! Thanks so much for letting me come here. It’s the best summer my young eyes have seen! I have written several stories and have been reading some really interesting literature. I have become fond of the memoir genre and I dream of one day publishing a funny and heartbreaking memoir about my childhood. For this, I request your support. In order for my memoir to rank with those of Augusten Burroughs or Mackenzie Phillips, my life needs to be out of the ordinary and I am asking for a little cooperation. For example, when I return home, instead of asking me how much fun I had, maybe you could make me defecate into a Ziploc bag and store it in a cardboard box in the basement. Just something a little zany. Would you be willing to quit your sales job so we could move out of the suburbs to live as nomads, traveling from city to city selling artisanal pottery and scarves? Any little thing would help. I am thinking in the memoir you will be a bohemian figure who has given up his steady but heartless corporate job to pursue his passion as a performance artist. Like for Christmas this year, instead of getting an Xbox 360, maybe you could give me a bunch of dead kittens as a metaphor for the end of my childhood or something. It’s really up to you here; as long as you do something disturbing involving dead animals it will be a good story for the book. Whatever you're comfortable with. Maybe you could convert to Slavic Paganism and spend all of our savings on icons of the Sun god Dazhbog. Would you be willing to move to Pakistan so I could be oppressed at school? Maybe you and mom could start fighting. You guys always watch movies and make dinner together but my memoir outline is pretty reliant on you two throwing pans at each other after she catches you making out with Mr. Barnett. By the way, would you mind making out with Mr. Barnett?

I have already started doing my part for this project by eating my own hair. It tastes really bad, but it will make for an interesting quirk. I have also trained myself to be afraid of the color red and as soon as my package of roses and Sea-Bond is delivered I will be in the initial phase of an affair with Mrs. Garvey across the street.

Just to update you, in considering plans for after high school, I am keeping in mind the memoir. I have applied to work as a donkey castrator on a small ranch in Palenque, Mexico, and also at the Royal National College for the Blind. If admitted, I will gorge my eyes out.


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