Recently, I came to the realization that I don’t exist; I haven’t for years. And when I say years, I do in fact mean infinity, it’s just that I’m lazy, and it’s simpler to write “years” than to be bothered with typing out all those zeros.
Now let’s just dismiss your first point of contention right away by saying that the fact that you are reading these non-words in a non-existent letter does not in any way, shape or form constitute some kind of proof that they were written by me, and therefore I must exist.
First of all, there is no proof that these words were actually written by me. It could’ve been anyone. It’s well known that O. J. Simpson has time on his hands, giving him ample time to have written this just to mindfuck with you. Furthermore, there are plenty of other miscreants with time and blood on their hands, and more than ample reason to keep busy creating a trail of false and confusing leads for the legal authorities to follow.
Second of all, none of this text is actually here. It could be that triple-fried enchilada doused with mint-chocolate chip ice cream that you inhaled before bed last night, speaking to you in your R.E.M. sleep. It might also be that tablet of Gamma-hydroxybutyrate that the tall, attractive hunk dressed like Rob Halford dropped in your piña colada when he distracted you by pointing out the stellar backside of that hot, sweaty Armenian waiter from Chippendales. How should I know? It’s your deluded psyche, balanced precariously upon the alternative lifestyle of your choice. You tell me.
Or at least you could tell me, if I was here, but I’m not!
Now, would you care for a Cosmopolitan, or perhaps another helping of Rocky Road?
On second thought, you’ve had quite enough, and clearly can’t hold it.
William E. Jones
(Not my real name or address, obviously. Duh.)
Photo: Elliott Brown, flickr