January 22, 2012
Sunday, 12:01 PM
Dear Arthur,
I didn't get any sleep since I wrote that letter to you. I really tried after I finished it, but I just couldn't sleep. I laid in bed for two hours, then decided to just fuck it and stay up until I can sleep again. I don't think that'll be anytime soon since I've been drinking a lot of coffee lately. I remember how you used to hate that stuff. We'd argue all the time about tea and coffee. I still say coffee is way better.
Though, now that I think about our fights about it, I remember how almost every time we did, you would always give in and just leave. I never knew why. I never even cared why, really. I just thought you were giving up because I was right. But now I notice why. It reminded you of the Boston Tea Party, didn't it? I'm not bringing it up to be mean, I swear. I'm really sorry, Arthur. I remember it really well now.
I remember that me and a bunch of guys dressed as indians and got onto one of your ships, and how brown the water was when we dumped the crates into the sea. But what I remember most, was when I was sitting ontop of a bunch of crates and I wouldn't come down when you told me to. You told your men to push the crates overboard with me ontop and I fell in the water. Normally, I would be pissed about that. But I can't blame you now that I think about it more.
I remember that I couldn't see through the salty water polluted with tea. You had to come in and save me from drowning. And how did I repay you? I kicked you and stayed away from you. I remember how cold it was while I sat on a floating crate in the middle of the water while you waited for me on shore. It was so cold out there. Especially when night came. I seriously thought I was gonna die out there.
Remember what happened when you came out to try and bring me back? I didn't want to come at first, even though you had blankets and coffee for me. And I declared my want for independence. I bet you remember those words more than anything. I'm sorry I can't remember them. My memory gets a little fuzzy there, probably from the freezing cold, but after that I remember later that night when you read me one a story. The last story you would read to me before we began to really fight. I wish I could remember it. Especially now. Maybe if I look through our old storybooks, I'll find it. And when I do, I'll write it all down in another letter. Just for you.
Well, Matt's here. I should go eat now since I haven't eaten since I wrote the last letter, either. I smell McDonald's, too.
I'll write you again. I promise.
Sincerely,
Alfred