Dear Wigleaf,

My marriage wasn't really about two people. Nor my child properly
raised—he was lowered. My second meeting at the Velveeta factory wasn't really an interview. No one knows what it is to be hunted down without having lived it, and unless the hunt was constant and active, carried out with deliberation and determinism and dedication and never a break, with perseverance and fanaticism, as if the pursuers had nothing else to do in life but catch you and before that look for you, keep after you, follow your trail, locate you and then, if you're lucky, wait for the best moment to settle the score…well. Fuck the Velveeta factory! I wish I had heeded such advice. A melody issued from my organs. That's what I tell people—my organs. Life is hard. Life is hard. But what would the bowl of creamy dip be without the gaping circle of razor-sharp chips? The clearing without the forest? The postcard without all these disturbing dots of ink?


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Read SL's "Velveeta Advice (with Commentary on Cows)."

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