Dear Wigleaf,

Your father and I need to talk to you about these threats you're making at us on the Internet. You said you'll never call us again if we vote for—as if we'd vote for—as if you ever call us anyway. Last time you called was money, it's only ever money. Something about the ER, a boil on your ass. Would it have killed you to say rear end? A rear-end abscess? Time before that you'd spent $400 on a juicer and couldn't make rent, and for what, juice? You can get that at the grocery for $1.79! It's only ever money. Never checking in. If you called checking in, you'd know your father isn't well since we saw Total Recall on TV. He thinks he's a Russian sleeper cell that never woke up. Blames himself for the fall of the Soviet Union. Doing sit-ups, re-re-educating himself with your books from college. Eagleson, Marx, Althistle, someone called Deluge Guitarro. Looks like you never opened them. The money we spent on those books so they could sit unopened till your father decided to be a college communist. My God. If you'd call and talk to him. If your father could hear your voice, son, your voice, we don't expect you to visit, just call, fine, even if it's just you need money, your voice son, please call your parents. We miss you. Please call. I swear we didn't vote for—we'd never, son, your voice.

Love,
Mom