A harsh mistress

By J. Peterman
World Traveller

Trev,

I just wanted to stop by and tell you that if there's anything you need from me, you just go ahead and say the word. I know it's tough over there right now, so I have already taken the liberty of sending over a delectable gift basket to help smooth you through the tough times ahead. There are various homeopathic remedies from the depths of mystical Southeast Asia along with a few pans of my patented organic wheat-germ brownies. I also threw in a few bottles of crap I picked up at the local GNC and a box of Nutter Butters, but that's not important right now. What's important is that you understand the gravity of the situation.

Don't let the condensated smile fool you. That pitcher is full of shattered dreams.

The kid's overdosed on the Kool Aid, and I don't think I'm the first to tell you, but coming down from that kind of high is no small feat. Many a man has fallen to the unforgiving gaze of the Crystal King, his jovial nature inviting us all to drink up as he bursts through the walls of our hearts, but the sugar...oh the sugar, Trev. Sweet lady saccharine is never too far behind, and she is a stone cold bitch.

First, she lures you in with promises of national glory and untold celebration. You begin to drink of the stick sweet deliciousness, and partake in quaffing chalices full of refreshing beverages all the colors of the rainbow, a veritable symphony of college fight song cacophony that also quenches the thirst. Next thing you know, she's set her bamboo barbs under your skin, and you're mainlining the pure cane like an Olmec shaman on yet another vision quest. Spirits dance in your mind, you begin to speak in tongues, sing nonsensical musings, and give yourself entirely to the crusade. Woe to the man who fashions himself a lofty perch on a foundation of powdered drink mix. When the rain eventually comes, you fall mighty quick, coated in a thin sticky film of stale Sharkleberry Fin.

A hell spawned harpy if their ever was one. Peddle your ill-gotten wares elsewhere, devil woman!

No amount of Zest deodorizing soap can clean the filth of one who takes a high-dive off this deep end, at least not yet. The first 24 hours or so are the worst, Mr. Alberts, I suggest you bring a poncho. Your office is going to need your bold leadership more than ever. Be prepared for the long hours, the tough sacrifices, and the elbow grease required to get most of your furniture back to a usable state. I don't envy you in the least, and all I can say is stay strong.

It won't be easy, as at times like these it's best to have some other hobbies to occupy your mind. Unfortunately, the kid's hobbies of late have been drinking, revenge, and European-style soccer fanaticism. I should probably blame myself. I was the one who regaled him with quasi-romantic stories of my time on the West End, drinking precious whiskeys until I was fighting drunk, cheering on the warrior-princes until I coughed blood, and then smiting my enemies with the reckless abandon...but I digress.

Godspeed, sir.

J. Peterman, Esq.