Dear Kenneth, Yes, I am writing, but I am not giving in to your masculine wiles. Why would I when each day here begins with a mug of chai fragranced with cinnamon? I linger over it as the sun rises over the Bilbao Canyon. Here I sit listening to the sounds of the orangutan family that frequents the palm groves beyond the villa. They are my family now: Krispie, Rollo, Tuk Tuk, Lorraine and Miami. Them and Bonita my reformed pirate valet. Yes, she has a hook for a hand and insists on carrying that damn parrot on her shoulder, but she prepares me post siesta papaya smoothies every day, which is more than I can say for you. My days of dipping stale toast in your bacon fat are over. My flow is dictated by the moon now, not your whims. The clocks at Central Station could be set according to my ovulation cycle. It is absorbed by the textiles that Miami and Lorraine gave me at my orangutan naming ceremony. Each cycle intensifies the red tone and I drape myself with pride. Gaudeamus igitur furcifer; I am happy. Do not bother corresponding again. Sincerely, Flo aka Wicket (that's my orangutan name)
submitted by Lizzie McNeely,
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