(found by a headstone with “fuck you” written on it in red crayon)
My God Ursula,
This place, and it’s filled with these people. What is this place, and why is it filled with these people?
What a travesty! What a joke! What a disgrace to the human spirit!
Frauds, every last one of them. Frauds, phony, phony frauds.
Her with her glasses and knit sweaters like she lives on a farm and can only afford cheap plastic glasses with thick lenses a designer label stamped on the side, like she’s forced by poverty to knit her own sweaters with wool she steals from the neighbor’s sheep.
Him with his tie and his hair gummy with gunk, looking like a shellacked Ken doll you’d find on shelves at your local Toys R’ Us, and acting like he’s important, acting like he’s anything more than a shell, talking through a screen with a picture and a heart on it like any of it means anything other than laziness, insecurity and shallow stupidity.
But that’s all we are is a shell. That’s all there is.
Hollow inside like a cheap chocolate Easter bunny.
And this woman on television, this antichrist, promising salvation and weight loss and enlightenment to all those sad people, and all they need to do is buy this handcream or read this book – the one with the sticker, otherwise she doesn’t get ten percent of the profits from the sale – and all they need to do is learn how to transform a regular sheet of construction paper into an impressive and serviceable doily.
Because that’s what life is. Life is hiding behind materials and making any desperate effort to avoid life. Life is sitting at home and polishing fake glasses, shining the leather bindings of all the fake books up on our bookshelves. Life is furiously working to transform construction paper into impressive and serviceable doilies, anything to avoid looking over our shoulder and out the window at the world, the world where the sun shines and night falls and the wolves howl and the birds sing sweet birdsongs.
Anything but that.
My God Ursula.
What am I doing here?