I don’t know where to turn for help now that the world is going mad and is trying to rip my door from its hinges, drag me into the street and turn me over to the raging mob.
I could call the president, but I’m pretty sure he won’t take a call from a nobody like me. He should, though. I did him a favor so he owes me.
Several months ago, he sent me a letter wherein he addressed me as Dear Friend, then asked me to donate to his reelection campaign. So I did. I sent some money, but I never heard back from him. I guess after getting reelected he’s too busy now with more important matters to remember me. Or maybe he has a new Dear Friend and doesn’t need me anymore. That’s probably why I haven’t heard from him. He’s just too busy now.
I’ve kept the letter, but I haven’t told anybody about it. I don’t want to brag about being the president’s Dear Friend.
That leaves the Pope. I can call him, but he’s as busy as the president. Ha! Who am I kidding? Even if I call, I’m pretty sure he won’t pick up. Besides, the Pope is beset by problems loaded onto his shoulders by a spiteful God, and those are the worst kinds of problems to have.
It looks like I’ll have to call the asylum and ask for sanctuary. I hope there is room for me. If not, I’ll kill the sun, the moon, the stars, and, quite possibly, that fucker next door with the dog that never stops barking, just to let the world know it is not the only one going mad on a day turning the color of cream peach and turquoise.
Grey Sparrow Journal 