I CHIDE

I chide my parents, although never directly, nor quite openly, for having produced me. My main objection would or could be that I'm entirely in the sad categories of ungainly, ugly, and stupid. No sooner do I hop out of bed, on any given day, than I again must rediscover further evidences of the fact that my mother and father horrendously goofed insofar as they actually "created" me.
From moment to moment I'm as likely as "likely" ever was to dominate my landscape or my landscapes quite horrifically. I'll turn the pages of a magazine or newspaper, for example, and will, by dint of that very sort of process, give rises to new senses of embedded despair. (The folks who are around me, and the walls or gardens that seem to surround me, and any and all of the various creatures that might scamper will seem too disconcerted to locate any easy kind of breathing; and, the locus which I now bravely might continue to denominate "me" seems eternally tossed on sad oceans and (perhaps) onto ever sadder barbecues.)
I seem, these days, unwilling to be very or at all suicidal; even so, I must realize, and again must realize, and further should know and must know and quite fully realize what monstrous erroneousness is part and parcel of my ever having been or remained at all alive. My indubitable responsibility likely should include no wish to attack or assail my forbears for their careless actions. In fact: in too many ways I rather hugely seem to enjoy all semblances I may experience of being rather alive. I've been very dead all my life, of course. Some trim vim rules that deadness, of course. Please, kindly pass a few salts.

You will feel better once you can drag the christmas tree into the garden and set fire to it Bruce!.
It's all the needles you find months later....

Steve pining away Riggs

Dear **Steve**: Your suggestion hath merit --
enough> it I gladly might parrot!
I'll sit by that fire,
then sense I'm a choir
of mice with deep 'JEEEZ' to inherit.