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To:
Barbelith,
Massachusets State Home for the Bewildered,
Isswamopsa,
Mass.
I've always told you it would end up like this; you talking about glowing fungi and me tailoring a jacket for you with straps that fasten from the outside. Ever since that reprehensible incident with the newts, I've known you were a bad 'un. However, I've also come to appreciate your many virtues: your lose grip of the sphincters of sanity, your limpid sentimentalism and your reckless, puppy-ish goodwill; your trust in individuals and your glowering despite for the collective consciousness which buys Barbies for young children without the slightest sense of providing them with tiny, mean-minded, unreachable gods; your addiction to games which belong in the special corner of the playground, which are nontheless raised to an art-form surrounded by PhD level discussion of semantics and discourses; and your thick, rubbery, capacious, bleeding, spurting, still-beating heart.
I think that, if you exercise a little self-control, and take your pills on a somewhat less haphazard basis, you'll be able to function in the real world a bit longer without taking someone's eye out with a knitting needle or swallowing forty seven different kinds of shoe-polish to keep the tummymonsters from taking over the inner sanctum of the spleen.
Go on. Give it a try. I've got a whole plate of sugared eyeballs with your name on. We'll have an evening in...
Eudaemonia Prenderghast,
c/o Shalocin of Grope,
Fitzwallace Street,
Puddleby-on-the-Marsh,
Arkham |
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