Thursday, July 17, 2008

Cleaning out the closet yesterday I came across some old correspondence. Sigh: I was so angry back then, and it all seems so silly now.

Dear Mom and Dad:

How are you? I am fine.

I warned you about this place. I said I'd rather not go to camp if this was the only camp that still had a vacant spot. But you said it would be fun. You said all camps were basically the same, and that I could meet all sorts of different kids here. Well, the only kids here are fat kids. Surprised? I'm the only skinny kid at Fat Camp.

It's not even close to fun here. Last night we sat around a campfire and made S'mores. Out of rice cakes, Rye Crisps and Ex Lax. Then this morning we sat around writing supportive letters to Kirstie Alley.

I can't eat. If I have one more carrot stick, I'll burst. I can't sleep. I'm in a lower bunk, and every time the upper bunk creaks my life flashes before my eyes. There's a water shortage, so they won't let anybody jump into the pool.

Sorry about the shaky writing. It's the vitamins they give us. Christ, they must think my ass is a pincushion. Anyway, got to go. Dodgeball starts in fifteen minutes.

Clear off space on my trophy shelf.

Your son,

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