Cullen Cheats Quotas: An Oddball Letter to My Parents

In spite of its target audience, this letter does not contain any information so personal that I don’t feel comfortable posting it online, unless my subconscious somehow included my bank account and all my unfinished novel drafts as a binary code while I wasn’t keeping tabs on it. Regardless, here’s a goofy letter I typed up that some of you may find amusing.

***

Dear Mom & Dad,

I will not claim this is a timely letter, although from certain perspectives that could be argued. Say, when compared with the tasteless alternate timeline version of myself who gave you this letter in March (a real loafer, that one). I can’t help but feel that my efforts to bombard you with questionably humorous, er, humor, would be equally well served in person. A letter feels mighty redundant since, after all, I sat about twenty feet from you in order to type it. A sketch was quite out of the question, however, since Shannon towers over me in art the way I tower over her in… height, yes, that’s the one!

So here’s a page or possibly more of me rambling at you. It’s been quite a Christmas season here, by which I mean that there’s actually been precious little of note. I’ve made good use of the DVR and probably cost you more in consumed wine than I’d like to admit. So instead let’s talk about the dogs: I can confirm that both of them are here, and have duly continued to be here instead of using their well-known teleporting powers to raid an absent butcher’s storeroom. Other Valhunds are notorious for this, and I commend ours for not doing so. Emi also remains Emi, as opposed to suddenly becoming some other cat. I’m quite certain she’s not been so restrained regarding teleportation, however, since as I’m sure you’ve noticed she often changes places when you’re not looking directly at her. All cats are, in fact, Schrodinger’s, until observed to be otherwise.

Shannon and Cat have been here too, although I’m not sure how much of that time was spent awake since they primarily emerge at meal times or to watch TV. I, of course, emerge at these times and to walk the dogs, putting me in a much higher category of household presence.

I would like to express my appreciation for the couch, but the truth is I can’t use it without feeling like I’m taking one of Halla’s spots (possibly two or three if I try to lie down). In any case, I’ve been much too busy keeping contact with some cheerful fellow via Email. He’s explained that he needs my social security number as a matter of national security. He didn’t say what nation, but I’m sure sergeik-shev@kremlin.ru isn’t a Russian hacker because his web address makes that far too obvious. I believe he may be a deep-cover CIA operative who needs me to stay in touch to complete his front. I have also given him access to my bank account, which he swears he’ll use only to prevent his mission being compromised.

On a side note, I know I need to provide for myself as of this May anyhow, so could you please double my stipend for the time being? I seem to have run out of money somehow.

As much as it pains me to say it, I’m beginning to miss the whole reenacting mess. I’ve never had quite as much fun as I did when I went on a three hour trip to a forest (strangely, this correlated with the amount of sleep I got each night) in order to spend scorching July days listening to pirate music at a RenFaire, and watching Jerry explain how a cavalry saber and an axe are basically the same thing. I do note in retrospect that our definition of historical accuracy seems to bear a striking resemblance to the cheapest we could be while maintaining a thin veneer of damn-giving.

My heels are no longer in a flux state between scar tissue and open wound, which I concede is an improvement. I also haven’t been paid. I don’t want to be an ass about it, but I don’t think I can really say I was a mercenary reenactor until I’ve received full payment and instantly cut all ties. I might as well be any old reenactor otherwise.

The job search continues apace, the pace being a crawl, but I remain confident in my ability to sell any excess organs and resort to petty theft when if all else fails. I still need to make contact with GR’s criminal underground to see if they’re offering apprenticeships to become Hired Muscle. My muscles would appreciate this, as they feel it’s an important step in differentiating them from my fat.

Without wanting to sound petty, I can’t help but be irate that (as my roommates tell it) personal trainers primarily went the way of the dodo when the Recession it. Why couldn’t they have gone the way of the bison, petering out nearly to oblivion before making a comeback based on the Smithsonian’s taxidermy displays? This removes one of my options, which I think you’ll agree have been spare purely as a cruel twist of fate and in no way, shape or form due to my own choice of college major and ambient work ethic.

Santa’s been largely absent this year. I wouldn’t mind except that I asked him to bring world peace, or at least world ceasefire in his bag with him. I don’t normally ask for abstract global concepts as gifts, but I always thought Saint Nick could pull this one off since he’s magic and apparently visits seven billion people in a single night each year. I have reconsidered my requests for next year, and will instead ask Cthulu and the Old Ones to bring about world peace by their sheer crushing majesty bowing our pathetic meat-sack brain circuits beneath its existential weight, withering to void all fool pretensions of cosmic import and reducing us to our natural state of cowering, animal impotence until at last all humanity abandons the childish notion that we deserve our own name or place…

Sorry, seem to have gotten a bit carried away there. Anyway, I love you both, and hope to visit again before the sundering of all that is. Sorry, I mean same time next year.

Seriously though, do you have any bank accounts? Sergei says he’s desperate and his country needs me. Odd phrasing, but a deep-cover CIA agent must have his reasons.

Love,
Cullen

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