Personalities

Dearest Mom,
Some say the truth is out there. I’ve been driving for miles on Highway 64426741655 and somewhere between In the Middle of Fucking Nowhere and Don’t Come onto Our Ranch or We’ll Shoot You, Shit for Brains, I felt an infinitesimal tingle in one of the lower cartilaginous segments that compose my spinal column and knew that I had passed from Here to There. I knew because all I could see for miles and miles and miles was dust: a dustravaganza of Dune-ian proportions. Dust billowing and frillowing and trolliking. Shoobading and Laraping in the wind. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and got out. I waited for something to happen out there, because for God’s sake, it always does. And then shrwoorp! Shleeep! Something swooped down from the sky, and at first I thought it was Herm, the flying dustman I’ve encountered on Highway 64426741655 from time to time, or maybe a stray dog. But no, it was actually David Duchovny disguised as a raven. I heard him chirp, “Follow me to the cave of my master, the great desert brujo.” After a moment’s hesitation, I followed and soon found myself inside a giant spaceship run by Martha Stewart. They have taken over my life and my identity, but they permitted me to send you this postcard. Tell everyone that I most sincerely apologize for any slights I directed at Ms. Stewart. Oh, wait. FMS.

Bruce