To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Tuesday July 30th, 1999 23:43 PM
Subject: RE bad
I miss you too, my big fat old slut.
What are you doing tomorrow? I’m working.
I‘ll be thinking of you as try to sell fellow students copies of Bronte or Cervantes.
That will help me survive.
Indeed I will take a paper plate from the University refectory and put it on my head; upside down.
I will spray paint my Nick Cave T-Shirt silver and sponge-stain it to look like armour.
I will then foster a sword from one of the wooden pickets that hold up the picture of Eron Broadhurst for Union President that have sprout from the earth with great fervour over the last week.
Then, by placing two ergonomic chairs from the back of the bookstore together and placing a some tourist tattle rug that my Day Manager insists on calling a piece of authentic Peruvian art over the top, I will crudely manufacture my nag, my Rocinante to carry me on my chivalrous adventures.
Once kitted out I will then attack those windmill leviathans on the Basketball courts and truly offer help to those that never want it.
I will be your Don Quixote, dear Dulcinea del Toboso. I will ride my nag into your romantic, horny palace. I will prove my worth by changing the world.
Or so I’ll ponder as a bash keys on the cash register, selling myriad copies of Dickens for Dummies while keeping my bone idle eye on the clock.
PS I’m not actually mad, by the way. It’s just - with you coming into my life - everything else has been made unbearable as comparison.