For what reason, I don’t know
Dearest Jasmine,
This morning, I awoke to the crinkling sound of wrapping and saw a shadowy figure standing at the foot of my bed, eating a Kit Kat. When I inched closer, I immediately got a whiff of the halitosis and this meant only one thing.
It was fucking Terry. He’s back from the dead.
Apparently, he was so thrilled two people showed up at his memorial at the local dump — one a maintenance worker on lunch break — that he asked God if he could come back to life for a few days. And can you believe it, God obliged?
If you remember the last time I saw Terry alive, it was in our backyard. He was playing with an injured squirrel, making crow noises again , and in between singing Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.”
To be honest, I wasn’t missing him all that much. A week before he died, he told me he’d eaten breakfast with an extraterrestrial he met in our backwoods near a muddy creek. Now that he’s back, I suppose I should want to make the best of it.
I’ve planned for an evening at The Improv. Since I’m the only one who can see Terry’s shadowy figure, things might get a bit awkward when I start talking to the empty seat next to me. I hope nobody smells the awful Yeezy cologne Terry told everyone Willow Smith gifted him last summer when he showed up at her new Chanel eyewear launch event at the Malibu Village Mall. Willow was overheard saying to her assistant, “Girl, who is this weirdo? Just give him the cologne to get him out of here.”
As if things couldn’t get more hokey, Terry has now requested we ride a tandem bicycle to The Improv, stopping first at a Chipotle to crush two chicken burritos with extra sides of guac, go halvesies on a cheese quesadilla, and order two Keto Salads Bowls to-go.
Say, do you remember the time he embarrassed us at the town’s public pool by whacking those two Goth kids with a pool noodle?
Their parents were horrified, but Terry kept at it, saying, “Billy Corgan from The Smashing Pumpkins is a recidivist who deserves to be back in jail for writing too many metaphorical lyrics!” We both know Terry was not a fan of literary devices such as metaphor, allegory, juxtaposition, and alliteration.
Terry! Get off me, you animal! I’m so sorry, Jasmine. Terry won’t stop dry-humping my leg and whispering in my ear, “I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart.”
Anyway, I hope we can catch up now that the 2024 US presidential election is over. Terry has a crush on Tulsi Gabbard and thinks RFK Jr is making the greatest conspiracy theorist.
Sorry, Jasmine, I must go now. Terry just urinated on the kitchen floor for no conceivable reason.
I can’t wait until he’s dead again.
Your friend,
Davidu
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