Velociworld

SICK

I received a package from my sister today, including a letter I wrote to Santa Christmas 1969, from my mother's belongings. I was 12. I vaguely remember the letter, and that I wrote it under duress from my mother because my little brother was still a believer, and I was assisting in the enabling, as it were.

Speaking of believers, we all know Geoffrey is a Doubting Thomas, and cannot believe even the most mundane matters of my existence are apparently more exotic than anything in his sclerotic life, and so I scanned the document, for proof. I realize the quality will be poor, and so, engaging soul that I am, I have addended a translation below it. Here it are:

How 'bout it, Fats?

I need some stuff for Christmas, 'cause I'm broke. Somewhere along the line I wanted a Boeing 707, but I can't pay for the fuel (my monopolies in Texas and Arabia done gone bankrupt). Anyhow, how about Palomar Observatory? Cape Kennedy? Seattle? Okay, I'll settle for Professor of Mental and Physical Sicknesses at Harvard (my two brothers will make perfect topics). I want a turquoise AMX, a bronze Javelin, and a mint green Jaguar. (Gas included). I need a telescope powerful enough to witness an eclipse of Pluto, and an almanac containing such things as the number of tableclothes printed a year, the average thickness of spectacles, the number of lightbulbs in the US., etc.

If I think of anything else I'll write.

Sentimentally yours,

(cause you got the money)

Me

12 years old. Damn. The scariest part is not much has changed in all these years, except perhaps my writing skills have deteriorated.

Posted by Velociman at September 14, 2005 10:21 PM