dear

Please, please, please be patient with me. I'm working on it now, as I have been for a quite a long time. When the cute FedEx guy delivered your letter I was overcome with a tearjerking yearning to see you, perhaps smoke a whole pack of cigarettes in ten minutes with you. I haven't smoked a single stick for more than a month now because I realized that I'm more addicted to amassing a collection of Lego Star Wars action figures (which, like cigarettes and alcohol here, cost a fortune) than I am to cigarettes. Anyway, I always read your letter when I get quite sentimental and melancholic here, and when I do I only succeed in depressing myself more. And I always say to myself, "This IS a letter!" while clutching pages of orange stationery. Your retarded illustrations never fail to make me chuckle, especially the one that shows me walking towards a structure labeled "Titi Building".

I wish your deathly fondness of me do not peter out (I got "peter out" from you, actually) because that would really, really, make me sad.

i'm just a boy with a new haircut

For some reason, I keep on bumping into a colleague inside the men's room. I should probably interject, parenthetically, that our encounters are purely accidental as a lot of people seem to assume that I follow men around, especially the ones who look snobbish or miserable or both. Anyway, the guy works in the room at the far opposite end of the hallway, which means I don't get to see him much during office hours. No idea, too, what he does for a living but I figured he must be in charge of pre-press matters as I saw some typeface files when I secretly looked at his publicly accessible folder.