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  • Mand Paskuski

Oh, The Socks are in trouble

My Dear Duckie,

Had to scratch a little something for you since it's been so long since last I did!

First, let me just say, what a fucking Sunday I'm having here without you. Woke unable to turn left. No I mean it, damnit, my neck is stuck. Something terrible happened in slumberville that upon waking, now prevents me from turning fucking left! Is this how it's to be from now on, Duck? Why did no one tell us this? Or did they? I wasn't listening...

Anyway, took the little four-legged hobgoblin out to piss and the wind nearly stole her to the South! I've been trying to fatten her up, but I'm doing a better job on myself so it seems. Baking is a sumptuous hobby. It's my own ruddy fault for being late to the game -- while everyone was starting sourdoughs during the pandemic I was making muppets. Muppets that have since been shelved, collecting dust-bunnies and grudges for companions. How bout that, ay? But these problems are not problems. There's a load of laundry and dishes in the sink that need attention. The scene from Withnail comes to mind - "Matter? What matter?" I need some plastic gloves! I need soap and a plunger and something to fix me bloody neck while we're at it.

My therapist recommended a vibrator. Do you think that would help?

I worry too much, Duckie. I worry all the time about things that haven't happened - that might not happen. I've watched a few dreams die to know another is likely nearing. I can feel it. Do humans, like all other earthy goods, sour as they age? I suppose wine ripens, but I've not been touching the purple for some time now - no grandiose reason just a bodily cleanse and a good purging to set the mind right and keep the liver on it's toes. Weariness is not something I thought I'd be experiencing in my early thirties. Am I a curmudgeon? Am I metamorphosing into my grumpy heroes? I should be so lucky.

My socks are wet. It's sunny with snow on the ground and I thought slides a good idea to dump the drip pot leaking from the roof outside onto the grass. And now I have wet socks to add to a pile of laundry that won't get done till next Sunday and the only socks dry are the ratty ones with the hole in the toe that feels weird in my slippies. I'm not complaining, I'm whining - there's a difference so don't get excited. Winter is no friend of mine, Pal. No mate to swing around with in the snowflakes. I'm desperate for palms - big plushy flambouyan ones but it's the getting there that's the worry. So, off to Doc I went to see about tempering the nerves. Only thing is, I'm afraid of the pill that's meant to quell the fear of turbulence - the thing that's supposed to help me with the thing I'm scared of, is scary! What do I do, Duck? White-knuckle my way through life? This fear, this fear, this ringing in my ears. Where do the spooks go after you wee yourself? I suppose it trickles down to wet your socks...

Duckie my dear, we are in perilous times, indeed.

Be safe.

Behave yourself.

Keep your socks as dry as you can.

Yours Socklessly,

Boom Boom.


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