Dear Allen,
I am watching everything get closer together, thick needles and rough thread; a patch that everyone will notice. I registered for Kate's haiku class, I'm not sure why yet, it may be an effort to better understand (and maybe like) poetry I have previously despised, or it might be an effort to get Kate to like me better. So when I tell her about the change in my contract, instead of writing historical fiction, I will be writing MY fiction, my true-to-life-fiction that nobody will believe except everyone's watching.
I'm conducting a social experiment while I'm in Germany, I will call it "A Thousand Sweet Kisses". I will try to kiss a thousand people... except that... that's 15 kisses a day. I don't know if I could find that many people to kiss. Maybe it'll be like those free hugs signs, and everybody will want one, but most of them will outwardly laugh and avoid it. Allen, why would anybody not want to kiss me? I've been told I'm kissable. Was it all lies? Usually I don't conduct my social experiments with myself as a subject, so I'm scared; do you think this is normal, daddy? And what if the kisses aren't sweet? I'm sure that at least one day my kisses will be like limes.
Limes are not sweet.
Maybe I should call it something else, and not try to kiss 1000 people, that's a lot of people. Maybe I should shoot for something lower, like 100. That's roughly 1.75 people a day. I think I could do that. But what if people felt left out because I would only kiss one person a day? Maybe I can come up with clever name for this project too. But I'd take a picture of each person regardless.
Allen, I'm going to try to write you while I'm in Germany, but I can't make any promises, since Jessie has offered to fill your place, as it is difficult to post letters to the White Beyond.
Enough babble. To the meat. This is my flesh:
Allen, help me, I'm taking seam rippers to the patch, just one at a time, half as fast as they're being sewn. I'm doing it this way because I can't decide if I should just let it be or if I should just tear through it entirely. Help. Me. I am trapped, but I don't know how or why. I have nothing to feel trapped about. I am hurtling myself towards academia.
I think this would be better if this were silk thread, light and thin. There's nothing like that homespun blackness, like rotting teeth, to remind you of all your metaphorical prisons.
Sorry this letter is so strange, daddy, I'll do better next time.
Love
Milesly
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