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Itty-Bitty Idiots
Reader discretion is advised.
Dear Cassie,
I received the flowers you sent, though they were half-dead when they reached me. Still, I placed one of the roses next to Barb’s cheek in her casket. It was a tacky box her kids bought that’ll go in the oven. They never treated her right, and I blame their deadbeat father.
I was glad you spoke with that liveshare person–he came from India so he knows how to make money. They’re all thieves, every one of that billion. But you can get a good deal with your head in the game, Sis. You should sell those lofts and just move to the mountains near me. The higher elevation would help with your oxygen, but you’d have to leave that hideous gargoyle you have in the courtyard. Maybe give it to that freaky old fag that lives there–you could tell him it’s one of them aliens he loves. He’d be happy about the rectal probe, I’m telling you. That one never gets old, does it?
I just don’t know what’s happened to the world. Young people are on their phones all the time, and they don’t do anything for people they care about. I sat with Barb for years, and I never heard them say they loved her. She just shrugged it off, arguing that they have their own lives. Pish. They don’t have important lives–they could all die tomorrow and no one would miss them. I would celebrate with champagne.
With Barb’s passing, I don’t know whether I’ll move back to San Fran or just hide in Arizona. The dry air would be good for you, and you’d never have to do another thing for your good-for-nothing tenants. I really worry that the kook will get you into trouble somehow. Give him that black cat and leave the city. It’s turned into a den for meth addicts, queers, and homeless riffraff shitting on the sidewalks. I don’t want you to stay there, though you never listened to me, even when we were kids.
I got thirty-two texts today–I counted them, and there wasn’t one paragraph’s worth of material in them. I don’t think people are dumber now–we just have to see it. I’d be cancelled for saying it, but they’re all socially retarded. If that quaint little man is near you, I bet he knows how they use social media to brainwash people. I know my microwave is listening to me, so I’m writing this letter by hand. I bet your oxygen concentrator is listening. They use the devices to control the weather, and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot.
I bought a Riesling today. Barb wouldn’t allow alcohol in the house–stupid evangelicals trying to make the rest of us fall in line. Those people are a necessary evil, but I just plain hate them. So now I’ll drink all I want. I’ll never have to see Barb’s kids again after this week. They’re no better than their dumbass mulatto father.
Do you think you can convince Bootleby, or whatever his name is, to move? You don’t have to get rid of tenants to sell, but he’s not going to make it easy to find a buyer. Speaking of which, when are you going to give me Grandma’s china? You promised years ago, but they disappeared down that black hole you call a storage unit. I want to display them once I’m back in an apartment again. You should follow through on your promises, Sis.
Anyhow, my hand is cramping, so I’m not writing more for now. But it’s a nice way to communicate. The latest generation is barely literate. I’m amazed. Itty-bitty idiots, all of them. You know what they say–it’s the mother to blame. Didn’t Bootleby the scrivener live in an orphanage? Without a mother, he’s Truman Capote in drag, practically. A real woman was needed to fix him. Maybe shock treatments? They helped Mother, didn’t they?
Your sister Rhoda