Dear Searing Box of Pain and Torture,
Hi, my name is [redacted]. Since you have ensconced yourself in my flesh between my 32 and 33 vertebrate (an approximation I made purely on my fondness for numbers that start with 3, I don’t actually know if I even have that many vertebrate or if I do, where those are) I thought we should take the time to get to know each other. I’m a Scorpio and based on your tiny pincers of agony I think you might be too. See! There’s more that unites us than divides us.
I have a cat, his name is Demos which is short for Demosthenes (as in the Greek orator… because I’m intellectualated) when he’s good, or Demon Seed when he’s not so good. What’s not so good? Well, jumping on me when I am curled into a small quivering mass of pain and misery. Personally I think you’re bribing him. Are you bribing him?
I’m currently in a Tax LLM program which may not mean much to you, but rest assured if I find your Tax ID number I will call the local IRS service center post haste and report you for… something.
Part of me wonders if you are merely the manifestation of the ghost of William Shakespeare. Crazy I know, but see I saw this movie the other day where the premise that Shakespeare wasn’t Shakespeare and then I was pointed to the Shakespeare authorship research center and they think there’s more truth to that theory than I originally thought and it was only THEN that you attacked me, speciously and arbitrarily and capriciously and without provocation, warning, or notice by certified mail and so I’ve got conspiracies on the brain, or in shooting spasms through my nerve endings… whatever the case may be.
Anyway, I hurt. You have wounded me deeply, gom jabbar, and I would like for you to go away.
I am not the Kwazia Hadderach. The Kaki Hasersach. The Kiwi of Habanero… err… Paul Atreides. So go away.