You said you were going to come down for Mardi Gras and you never
showed. What the fuck, man?
I'm writing you from a Louisiana house where all the windows leak. Down
the block is Ms. Judy Brown, my favorite neighbor. She is 83 years old
and I find her sitting on her porch, watching the pervert across the
street and chain-smoking cigarettes in her nightie like a badass. When
I visit, she tells me about her Creole mama and her football star
husband. She tells me about her dead daughter who lost a leg to the
diabetes. For years, Judy Brown's daughter walked around with a
prosthetic limb. God, I wish I had a prosthetic limb. Do you know the
number of windpipes I would crush? I would paint racing stripes on it,
I'd take it off to frighten children. I would be like, "WATCH OUT,
KIDS. DON'T DO THE MARIJUANA OR THIS WILL HAPPEN TO YOU TOO!!!" And
then you and I would jump the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis
courts and lie down on our backs on the cool green gravel there, pass a
joint back and forth and laugh and laugh and laugh. Someday, Wigleaf.
Someday. God I miss you.
Anyhow. Judy Brown has her dead daughter's fake leg in her house
somewhere, still. I guess she's not sure where. When you come visit,
we'll help her look for it. Okay?
PS Send money
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Read DN's "My Man."
w i g · l e a F