I am now so hungry that I am contemplating eating my landlord. I owe him two month’s rent so he’s bound to show up any day, unless he froze to death. A great many people have frozen, most right outside their own front doors, no doubt trying to escape the wrath of hunger as it obliterates all rational thought.
I have eaten my pets, my books, my clothes, some of my own hair, all of my nails and teeth, I’ve picked my mouth dry, my nose raw, and my ears clean.
My only chance is to kill and eat my landlord. Or anyone who knocks upon death’s door. I have become death so great is my hunger.
Or I could sell a few chapters of my book. My publisher has been arrested. He accosted a policeman in order to be arrested so as to spend some time in a warm bed, albeit in prison. I contemplated that for a while, some securities fraud, or maybe a little obstruction, but decided against it when I didn’t have the strength to move past the edge of the bed.
Somewhere I may have to find the strength to slay and then butcher a carcass, fry it like hog meat and then burn the remains for heat. If it works it may prove a scalable business. At least until the summer.
Enough of me. Are you still sculpting or are you back to miming? I haven’t seen your latest reviews. How are your erotic operas coming along?
It is nice to write to you like this, blind with hunger, because it allows me to gnaw on my free arm, my free hand long since gnawed off. Glory be to God! should someone just knock upon my door, and I know I shall find strength to rise and greet them. And then slaughter and devour them.
Oh if I could only sell my book! My last one, Recollections of a Laundrist, has failed to meet expectations, so I’m really being squeezed here. Like a lemon, spraying its delicious tartness over, say, some blackened salmon or some steamed broccoli. Or a meatball, made of pork and tuna, or turkey and salami, before being pan fried in some onion butter and then tossed into a pot of tomato sauce to be slow cooked before topping some spaghetti or wide noodle on a plate with toasted garlic bread.
I must stop this writing. It sounds too delicious. I fear I will eat the page.
Freezingly and hungrily yours,