Monday, 11 August
Lardo:
Has it really been six weeks since we last crossed pens? I have no excuse for my failure to missive except to say that I had gotten it into my head that I hated you and never wanted to speak to you again. Prithee, where do I get such ideas?
The good news on this front is that the cyclops has finally found a prescription to his liking and can carry on with the forging of the Peter Max handbags post haste. I don't like to rush him because -- and I'm sure some of this has to do with his feelings of resentment owing to his freakish condition -- he has a bit of a temper. When angered he doesn't act out or curse but merely fixes one with a stare that -- well, suffice it to say you don't want to be on the receiving end of that particular action.
Do you remember friend Booth? He now goes about town in a deep sea diver's suit and helmet. If it weren't so pathetic it would be comical. In fact, pathetic or not, it is comical now that I think of it -- especially when his air hoses get tangled amongst the cars as he tries to cross the street. Those weighted shoes are hell on the pavement you can bet. And what goes on in his head as he goes about his business? Do you think he believes himself to actually be traversing the ocean's floor, or do you think he might believe himself to be one of those miniature divers in a tropical fish tank? The latter explanation would explain the clutter better, would it not?
These friends of ours, what are we to do with them?
Spare no expense,
Greenly Sidstreet
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