I Never Know What To Do With These (Introduction)
Below you will find reproduced portions of a letter sent to me by a comrade. The original was over 9,000 words in length, but I have redacted portions of it which A) might lead to this man being identified, and B) which are inappropriate for publication for various reasons.
I have gotten a lot of these letters down through the years, on average about one a month. I call them "soul out-pourers," which is clumsy, but I can't think of any more descriptive term for when somebody writes a long and deeply personal and revealing letter to a complete stranger, in the rather touching conviction that sonebody else on earth gives a damn about their angst. Most of us have more than enough of our own to be getting on with.
Usually these people who send me these things are inviting me to join a "Committee of Correspondence" named after similar bodies just prior to the American Revolution. The objective is apparently to write long, long, LONG letters to one another, preferably on paper but e-mail is now acceptable.
Each letter must be a masterpiece of epistolary elegance and sparkling wit which will be published on blogs named "Occidental" something-or-other, so we can record for posterity how fucking brilliant we are. After some years of this pointless circle-jerk, we will all eventually keel over and three weeks or so later we will be found dead on the floor of our rented room, half-eaten by our own cats.
But our effervescent wit and Wildean command of gracious invective against Barack the Beast and that odious woman Hillary will be preserved in cyber-space for all time until the electric power finally goes off, the internet goes into hibernation, and then in about another 200 centuries or so it is suddenly powered up again by ... who? Or what?
In this case, I just don't know what to do with this. Max isn't a bad guy, he spent an immense amount of time on this, and I would feel like a real POS if I were to slip it quietly into File 13 like I do most of these. So enjoy, dewds!