Dearest,
There isn't much time left of course, so deciding what to do with it is increasingly hard. Our robot overlords are coming over the ridge yonder, and unlike the neighbor I had as a young girl, I do not have a revolver to repel them with. I think my neighbor might have thought that Soviet soldiers would come over the hill to get her, but, maybe she meant her own government? I suppose it doesn't matter now, if it ever did. I thought then, as I do now, that trying to hold back imaginary foes with a handgun was a perfectly ludicrous notion, unless you were a white hatted Western movie hero or a cinema secret agent.
She showed me the gun, kept in the glove compartment of her yellow van, to reassure me, to empower me. Except that empowering people by packaging it with a bonus gift of fear is actually enslaving them.
I tell you all this tonight, because I am thinking of how I will accomplish all that I have planned: a trip to Spain, writing a Warren Zevon song, skating a waltz jump, opening a lunch counter. I worry, I am afeared, that I might not get all this done.
