Dear old Chum,

We have been friends for some time and so I write you separately with no intention to charge you for the consult. I've looked at your scans from the TBI you acquired at sea, and they all seem to reveal a disturbing patch of damage to your frontal lobe. I'm sure you know what this means, darling. It means, no shopping, and no kissing boys. But you already knew that. This is just one more reason to listen to yourself.

And please, don't bark at dogs and make snide remarks at toddling innocents- frontal lobe damage doesn't explain why people are bullies. Mindless violence, yes. But wordy snipes are conceived elsewhere, so I shall not be able to represent you in court if ever a case emerges. I am sure you understand me.

Yours truly,
Surgeon General

---

The bleeding pink water sloshes out into the sink
and some of the dye grabs on to the side of the basin.
heartjuice, i think.
desperate, oblivious, childish, painful
heartjuice.

Noone said it was going to be easy.
I didn't say anything at all.
Where does that leave me?

Mentally slammed my head into the wall a few hundred times today. Don't be stupidsara. Then some basal animal takes over and tries to cry, or move, or glimmer menacingly from any available orfice possible and it's repression becomes an art and a time consuming mastery of skill. "Oh Shut Up!" is a favourite phrase. And I am becoming afraid that I am indeed ill. Because I do not uphold my masked image in the way I should. Perhaps people do not see what they ought- perhaps the ugly is too ugly and they have chosen to ignore what they tell themselves is a figment of their imagination (It's much to disturbing to be real, harold).