My Plans


I've been listening to your records and trashing them to all my friends. Using them to prop up wobbly furniture. You got some taste in music, don't you? I don't think any of these people have ever heard of a metronome.

Some chump keeps coming around with his cruddy hillbilly pal and asking if you're here. I tell them you ain't. You left me you heartless witch, and I just can't understand why. I tell them to try the waiting room at Hattie's Whorehouse. If you care, I let the cruddy hillbilly take your dog: I was getting tired of feeding it.

I still keep you picture on the back of the toilet. Every time I'm in there I look at it and cry salty tears onto my lap. I can't stand what's become of me.

But the doctors say I'll be able to use my leg again in a few weeks, and once I can I'm going to use it to kick my plans into high gear. I'd be wearing a hard hat when you're in the streets from now on–that way maybe enough of your head will remain that the doctors can figure out why you were born without a moral compass.



Letters from Underground