Letter to the Patient

And you smell, too...


Dear Maureen,

Wake up. Seriously, enough with the coma thing. We've all been crying for two weeks now. Mom looks like Willem Defoe. I now have Brando's hairline from The Missouri Breaks. Even Dad lost two pounds, which we both know is the equivalent of two cubic miles of ice suddenly shearing from the polar ice cap.

Also, my blog is no longer the fun diversion from winter I'd intended. It's beginning to get a bit clove cigarette in here. Hurry the fuck up. I want to post about coconut bras and why Bloc Party should try to sound more like the English Beat...

Plus, if you intend to get hiccups again while on the respirator, please wait until Stephen is on watch. You know I have a bad heart, and 3AM is no time for nonsense. Stephen has a wife; I have champagne, Pearl Vodka, and Tiger Balm. He is better suited.

In closing, wake up.

Yours in Jesus,
Gavin

PS. Love the haircut! Asymmetry is in!