On disappointment

Dear readers,

Unfortunately, there's no Shandy letter today. Honestly, I could barely pull myself out of bed to type this. In the walk across the floor of my incomprehensibly expensive bedroom, my feet have become covered in spent tissues--adhered to my skin by the saline grip of stale tears. And some cum. You see, I was ejected from the Kodak Theatre before J.K. Rowling's recent reading from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. No, dear readers, I'm no Potterite. Are you stupid? Do you think I'd stand for such driveling prose?

Sorry. Anyway, it's J.K. I wanted. Want. Have wanted. Those ruby lips. Those ruby eyes. That ruby hair. "She must be mine," I said when-I-first-saw-her-edly.

You see what she's done to me? My heart is so addled, I'm beginning to write like her.

So what if it wasn't my child with cerebral palsy? Shouldn't it be enough that I was there in the front row with any child with cerebral palsy? You see, it's not just my life those guards ruined when they chucked me--it was also the "life" of that severely handicapped child I borrowed from a ticket scalper outside. And where the hell does a ticket scalper get off bringing kidnapping charges? Glass houses, anyone?

I guess it didn't help that I had a monkey net and a bottle of chloroform in my knapsack.

I haven't felt this way since my Meredith was taken from me. And this was my last chance to meet her. J.K. doesn't return my calls. She doesn't run in my social circles. And there's no way I'm visiting Britain. I refuse to eat boiled food.

Anyway.

I'll be back tomorrow. If I don't do something drastic in the meantime.

Best etc.,
Laurence Shandy, and so on