Letters to home


Friday, May 05, 2006
10:57 PM

Dear Mom and Dad,

It’s 11pm on a Friday night and guess what I’m doing?

I’M DRINKING SODA!

That’s right, it’s past my bedtime and I’m having caffeine. I’ll probably be awake all night…

And there’s nothing you can do about it!

I just had a whole can of Coca Cola Classic and I might even have another one.

Your little boy is all grown up now and he doesn’t have to play by your rules anymore. You can’t control me. I’m not going to play nice and be the suit and tie-wearing corporate drone you’ve always wanted me to be.

There will be no 3 car garage. No summer house in the Hamptons. No Sub-Zero refrigerator stocked with vegetables and 2% milk.

You know what there will be? Soda. And lots of it. And playing ball in the house. And jumping on the bed. The other day, I listened to Howard Stern on the radio and didn’t even cover my ears during the bad parts. Plus, I’m thinking about getting a subscription to Playboy Magazine. And no, I won’t be reading it for the articles.

I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’ve pushed me too far. Unless this means you’re going to stop paying for my health insurance, in which case, all of the above is totally negotiable.

Saturday, May 06, 2006
6:42 AM

I’m sorry, Mom and Dad

OK, you were right.

I had to be a big shot. I had to drink my Coca Cola Classic. “23 skidoo!” I said, be-boppin’ and scattin’ all over the place. I had a grand ol’ time.

Then 3 o’clock rolled around. That’s AM, for those of you who were wondering.

I don’t know if you people have been up past ten before, but it’s dark out. There are monsters out there. I heard them making noise in the bushes outside my window. I wanted to go to sleep, but I couldn’t!

What do you do if you have to go pee because you’ve had 3 Cokes, but you know there’s a monster under your bed waiting to chop your feet off with his light saber if you try and go to the bathroom?

You piss your gosh-darn pants, that’s what you do.

Mom and Dad, I want to come home. Los Angeles is scary. Yesterday I saw some teenagers who I think may have been in a gang. And it’s not like in those “Our Gang” short movies I love to watch. It’s not that kind of “gang”. They have baggie dungarees and “wrap music”.

I have a giant pile of laundry that is moldy and stinking up my whole room. Now it’s going to be much worse with the introduction of my urine-soaked underpants and sheets. I haven’t eaten anything but Ritz crackers in days. It’s hard for me to type this because I can’t stop sobbing.

Please Mom and Dad, fly to Los Angeles and come get me. I hate it here, everyone is mean and I am tired of being a big boy. I miss sleeping in my race car bed at 9:30 at night, with Scraps curled up in a ball at my feet. I miss waking up to a healthy breakfast and clean sheets and bath-time with Mommy. I know I told you that I know how to wash my own penis, but I was lying! That thing is filthy and itches constantly except when I pee, because then it burns.

I don’t know what those folks are going through over in Iraq, but it can’t be any worse than crying your brains out in your non-race car bed because you miss your mom and dad and you are scared of monsters and your special area hurts like heck while you lay there, soiling yourself.

Again, let me re-iterate: I am sick of being an adult. I want to come home and live with you, Mom and Dad. You know what? I can’t really wait for your response, I’m going to board up my apartment and drive down to the train station. I’ll just give my cars keys to a hobo or something, he can live in it until you send someone to get it back along with all my stuff which I won’t be taking.

I’m going to use the emergency Citibank Visa to buy my ticket. I would say that I’m going to pay you back but we both know that’s a lie. If you could, see if Mr. Willickers will give me back my old paper route and I will help around the house with chores, though I am not doing the lawn til Dad gets the ride-em mower fixed.

I love you two and fully admit that you were right. I was wrong. I am a stupid, helpless baby who can’t do anything. This has truly been the worst 83 hours of my life, moving out here on my own.

The real world: 1. Eric: 0.

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