February 4th, 2010
Dear Dad,
Tomorrow is our first basketball game. I kind of like basketball practice. Not that I’m good at it or anything, but I kind of like getting all sweaty and tired and hanging out with friends. Not in a gay way or anything. In a sports way.
Does it make sense to call these guys friends? I guess they’re the closest thing I’ve got. I mean, I don’t want to tell them my deep secrets or anything. There’s no way I would talk to them the way I talk to you, about girls and your being dead and stuff like that. And if I was hanging off a cliff and had to call one person to come and save me, I probably wouldn’t call any of them. I’d call Mom, I guess. Is that weird?
I guess I don’t think it’s all that weird, because Mom would actually come and save me, where even Donnie Joad, who I guess is my best friend, would stop and call people to tell them the news before he actually did anything helpful.
I had a math test yesterday and got a C on it. I was actually pretty happy about that, because for some reason, this whole pre-algebra thing is somehow starting to make sense. I mean, I’m not a math whiz or anything. But I don’t even think that hag Mrs. Fletcher would call me a math idiot anymore. C means average, right? If I could be average in math, I’d be pretty happy. Is that wrong?
Is it?
Answer me!
I don’t know why I keep writing these stupid letters to you. You don’t write back anymore. You wandered off into the woods, where you probably fell down a hole and now your flesh is slowly burning off in a lake of fire.
OK, I hope that’s not true. I hope you found heaven.
I don’t really think you did, though. I mean, I love you and everything, but you don’t sound like you’re ready for heaven. In your letters, you kind of just mope around. Now you’re probably moping around in the woods and can’t find your way back.
I kind of hope you don’t read this letter, because I sort of sound like a jerk in it. I sound like I don’t like you very much.
Please write back,
Your son,
Trevor
Dear Dad,
Tomorrow is our first basketball game. I kind of like basketball practice. Or at least I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would. Not that I’m good at it or anything, but I kind of like getting all sweaty and tired and hanging out with friends. Not in a gay way or anything. In a sports way.
Does it make sense to call these guys friends? I guess they’re the closest thing I’ve got. I mean, I don’t want to tell them my deep secrets or anything. There’s no way I would talk to them the way I talk to you, about girls and your being dead and stuff like that. And if I was hanging off a cliff and had to call one person to come and save me, I probably wouldn’t call any of them. I’d call Mom, I guess. Is that weird?
I don’t think it’s all that weird, because Mom would actually come and save me, where even Donnie Joad, who I suppose is my best friend, would stop and call people to tell them the news before he actually did anything helpful.
I had a math test yesterday and got a C on it. I was actually pretty happy about that, because for some reason, this whole pre-algebra thing is somehow starting to make sense. I mean, I’m not a math whiz or anything. But I don’t think even that hag Mrs. Fletcher would call me a math idiot anymore. C means average, right? If I could be average in math, I’d be pretty happy. Is that wrong?
Is it?
Answer me!
I don’t know why I keep writing these stupid letters to you. You don’t write back anymore. You wandered off into the woods, where you probably fell down a hole and now your flesh is slowly burning off in a lake of fire.
OK, I hope that’s not true. I hope you found heaven.
I don’t really think you did, though. I mean, I love you and everything, but you don’t sound like you’re ready for heaven. In your letters, you kind of just mope around. Now you’re probably moping around in the woods and can’t find your way back.
I kind of hope you don’t read this letter, because I sort of sound like a jerk in it. I sound like I don’t like you very much.
Please write back,
Your son,
Trevor
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: adolescence, afterlife, basketball, fatherhood, junior high school, math, middle school, purgatory, writing | Comment (0)