Twitter was not at all what I thought it would be.

I envisioned a virtual water cooler where all sorts of people–many who didn’t work in an office– might get together during the day to exchange witty banter about what was going on in the world. I imagined a kind of democratic paradise, too, maybe like the ancient Greeks, a place where there was equal opportunity for everybody to be heard, and the quality of an idea was not contingent upon the status of the person bearing it.

Of course, it turns out that Twitter is a tire fire, and I simply could not have been more wrong.

Twitter and it’s 140 character cage, ( now upped to 280 characters ) did not spark conversations, it destroyed them. Instead of attempting to actually investigate ideas that you didn’t already own, people went on search and destroy missions, each Tweet a drive-by shooting aimed at a rival gang. Twitter was a weapon, a device used to amplify and distribute propaganda, and whenever a person was handed this weapon they immediately, without even knowing it, became a soldier in somebody else’s army.

Twitter was not a place you went to freely express yourself, it was a battlefield.

Just under a quarter of Americans are on this battlefield, and from what I can tell the preponderance of people using the platform would be loosely defined as a kind intelligentsia, those with sufficient space and security in their life to spend X-amount of time each day looking to make corrections in the lives of others. These people are driving the culture wars that are currently dominating our cyclonic news cycle, and that, in turn, is driving the political discourse. This means that the vast majority of Americans, more than 75%, are being led down a road paved by this influential, minority group.

Yet oddly, we seem more concerned about conspiratorial fictions then this beast in which we live.

No matter, the people behind Twitter know how dangerous and influential the platform has become, and in an effort to make it less pernicious, they’re now considering taking away the Like function.

Twitter is an obviously hierarchal structure, a place where status is measured by Likes, followers and retweets. The more of these you have, the more influence you wield. It’s practically a board game. The goal is not to learn about other people and their ideas, it’s about acquiring and exercising power. ( Exhibit A: Donald Trump) But it’s not the real world, not even close. The vast majority of humans live outside the gates of Twitter, yet they are directed and depicted, by those within. A technology that was meant to be radically democratic has somehow ended up being kind of totalitarian.

For instance, China is creating a Social Credit System which is intended to measure citizens social and business reputation. It’s a Black Mirror episode, a world in which everything you do is judged and catalogued by others, and it is upon that which your ability to function in society is dependent. In fact, Twitter had something very much like that which they called Klout, a complex numerical measurement of your influence. This is the unfortunate principal on which much of our social media exists, and if Twitter liberates us from it, they will be striking a great blow in a war most of us don’t even know we’re fighting.

She lives in the same part of Toronto as I do, and occasionally we bump into one another as we did yesterday when Rachelle and I were at the local park with our two-year old son Jones:

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Me: Oh, shit.

Rachelle: What?

Me: Two o’clock.

Rachelle: The woman in the cloak?

Me: I thought it was a cape.

Rachelle: No, that’s a cloak.

Me: Ok, whatever. Either way, it’s Margaret fucking Atwood.

Rachelle: I think she’s coming over. I’m going to take Jones to the swings! You two talk on your own!!

( Rachelle and Jones run off as Atwood approaches)

Atwood: Forgive me, but I have to ask, do the police get called very often?

Me: I’m not sure I understand what you mean.

Atwood: You, a middle-aged loner who will never be accepted by his neighbouring, wealthy peers.

Never-quite wearing the right brand and always on the periphery, just shy of conversation, always staring at the children and their pretty young mothers, staring so hard it seems as if you’re trying to fill some interior void that can never stop hungering. I’d think that might make many of the parents nervous.

Me: I think I’m seen more as a kind of guardian, like Batman.

Atwood: Yes, Batman, or perhaps a guardian, like a hollowed-out and mother-dominated crossing guard still living with his deceased parents. Maybe like that, too.

Me: Did you make it to the corn boil here the other day? Blue grass band and everything.

Atwood: Here at Sibelius park?

Me: Yes.

Atwood: No, I was in LA at the Emmy’s.

Me: Funny how the city of Toronto would name a park Sibelius, after a Finnish composer of classical music, before naming one after you, a Canadian writer of impenetrable, mostly hated books. Wonder why that is?

Atwood: I am astonished. You must have been reading your Wikipedia in order to find out who Jean Sibelius was, for surely you thought he was some old Toronto Maple Leaf who died in car crash, no?

Me: JONES!!! NO KICKING!!!! I’M SERIOUS!! I WILL TAKE THAT DIGGER AWAY!!! DON’T THINK I WON’T!!

Atwood: They’re so beautiful at that age. It’s wonderful to see such attentive nurturing, too. With all the advantages you’re giving your son, I am sure he will go far in this world, maybe all the way to The Keg.

Me: I heard you were wearing your housecoat on stage when that thing you wrote so long ago, The Handmaiden’s Tale, won some Emmy for best red outfit worn by a supporting actress, or something.

Atwood: Handmaid’s Tale, and it was awarded Best Drama, amongst several other awards, for being considered a prescient and uncanny representation of Trump’s America.

Me: It’s no Game of Thrones, is all I can say.

Atwood: “Perlen vor Schweinen geworfen,” as they say.

Me: Yeah, whatever.

Atwood: I saw that the *Giller Prize nominees were announced.

Me: JONES!!! I’M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN!!

Atwood: I couldn’t help but notice you weren’t nominated.

Not even on the long list.

Again.

How does that make you feel, Marcel?

Me: It’s Michael.

Atwood: Right, so sorry.

* The prize awards $100,000 annually to the author of the best Canadian novel or short story collection published in English, and $10,000 to each of the finalists.

Sadly, this state of affairs continued after she happened upon a garage sale ( http://michaelmurray.ca/garage-sale ) Rachelle and I were having, and then kind of exploded the other night on Twitter when I got involved in a debate about condos she was having with another Toronto writer. I interceded in the middle of the debate, and these are the tweets that passed between Atwood and I on that night:

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@margaretatwood: The un-rich have owned their houses for decades. Why should a development go right up to their lot lines and kill their beloved trees?

@michaelmurrayca: Have you seen an un-rich!?!? I hear they have teeth where ears should be and can only be killed by Dragonglass or gentrification!

@margaretatwood: Oh. It’s you.

@michaelmurrayca: I am an un-rich, you know.

@margaretatwood: Yes, I was able to deduce that from that little garage sale you had.

@michaelmurrayca: Made almost $80 at that sale.

@margaretatwood: Why, that must be more than you made on your book!

@michaelmurrayca: Unlike some authors who quickly sell-out to tv, I have some integrity. It’s not all about the money, Margaret, some of us are artists.

@margaretatwood: There is no hyphen in sellout.

@michaelmurrayca: I hear that they’re making The Handmaid’s Tale into a reality tv show.

Kind of like The Bachelor. You must be very proud.

@margaretatwood: Yes, as proud as your wife and son must be of you and your ability to provide for them through your “art.”

@michaelmurrayca: You remind me of Cersei Lannister.

@margaretatwood: You hate powerful women, do you?

@michaelmurray: Yes, very, very much.

@margaretatwood: Do you also disapprove of civic mindedness?

@michaelmurrayca: I am for whatever position you are against.

@margaretatwood: So you are in favour of killing trees, then?

@michaelmurrayca: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

@margaretatwood: So the fact that you’re totally uninformed about this condo development and the devastation it will bring to the local environment, that doesn’t prevent you from jumping in with an “opinion?”

@michaelmurrayca: I’d say it’s more commentary than opinion.

@margaretatwood: Tu tetras, homo parum de moron.

@michaelmurrayca: Oh, la-di-da! The grand dame speaks French!

@margaretatwood: Yes, I do, but the Tweet you are referring to happened to be latin. Like they speak in Mexico.

@michaelmurrayca: Were you called Margaret Fatwood in high school?

@margaretatwood: Oh my, I had forgotten about your biting wit.

@michaelmurrayca: In high school I was called The Enforcer.

@margaretatwood: It was ironic, I take it?

@michaelmurrayca: I was practically a god in high school, you have no idea!!

@margaretatwood: You miss those days, don’t you?

@margaretatwood: In spite of all the sport’s teams you never made, the low C’s you struggled to achieve and all the pretty girls who wouldn’t even glance at you, those were still the best years of your life, weren’t they?

@margareatatwood: Yes, I thought so.

As many of you know, I grew up in the same part of Ottawa as Canadian Prime Minister and Rolling Stone Cover Boy, Justin Trudeau.

Although I was a few years older, our paths still crossed many times, and even if we’re far from good friends, we have an amicable, nodding relationship that has well positioned me to assist him and the Liberal party in the creation of a series of Justin Trudeau romance novellas.

What follows are excerpts from some of the books:

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Book Title: Never The Same Way Twice

His fame and internationally renowned good-looks made it hard for Justin to live the simple life he so often craved. Sure, he got a lot of satisfaction from being the most influential man on the planet, photobombing wedding shots and ministering to refugees, but what he really missed was just rocking out at concerts like an average Canadian, an average Canadian who was lucky to live in the second best country in the world, according to U.S. News & World Report.

But tonight, tonight Justin was going to let the world save itself.

Disguised as a relatively plain Canadian– but for his fantastically lithe and toned body– Justin was going to let loose at the big Blue Rodeo concert.

It had been a long time since he’d rock n’ rolled.

It’s funny how two lives might entwine, and little did Blue Rodeo super fan Brenna Macdonald know, as she took the number 95 OC Transpo bus in from Orleans to catch the show, that her life was about to be forever altered.

Book Title: A Song Of Ice And Fire And Good Governance

Sansa’s heart was racing, galloping so hard that she was sure he must hear it. He took her chin in his hands, his hands made so strong by all the beautiful planks he regularly executed, and raised her lips toward his. At that moment he ceased to be Justin Trudeau, the widower Prime Minister of Canada, the lost Parliamentary Democracy of Westeros and only hope in the battle against the White Walkers, the White Walkers who had taken his bride, and he became something else. He became a vessel of passion.

“Je veux faire un amour doux mais ferme envers vous, ma reine,” he said to her in his mystical language, as he pulled her to him.

She could feel his manhood pressing against her, his lips now so passionately, so respectfully, on hers, and her release was so great that Sansa felt as if she was marble melting under the light.

Book Title: For Love Of Country

It was the best Pride parade that Toronto had ever seen, and the joy of Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau as he marched the streets– his white shirt soaking wet and clinging to his smooth body from all the water gun fights– was infectious. Sal, like everybody else, could not stop smiling as he watched from the crowded sidewalk. And then, as if a divine hand had ordained it, Justin’s eyes locked with his. The free-spirited and inclusive leader of a great nation beckoned for Sal to join him on the street, and immediately security parted the sea of people to make way for him. Sal, in a wheelchair and impotent since the mortar explosion in Kandahar, rolled out to him. The Prime Minister asked for permission, and then playfully sat on his lap and put his arm around him as they proceeded down Church Street and into a future neither one of them could have imagined.

His pitches were comets from distant and never imagined galaxies. They were rockets, they were bombs, they were terrifying, curving flourishes that made you think you were watching the astonishing dazzle of an alien technology. It was a new kind of physics, one that allowed him to perform stunning feats that lifted us from our lousy, mortal shells,.

He was a blazing fire, a goddamned Demi-God.

Fernandez died in a boating accident on Sunday at the age of 24.

( This is a photograph of Dee Gordon, Jose Fernandez’s teammate. Gordon is known for his speed, not his power, and he is so thin and little that he truly looks like a child out there amongst the gigantic professional athletes. On the first game back after his friend’s death, in his first at bat, he hit a home run, and as he circled the bases he wept like a boy. As he said later in an interview, “I ain’t never hit a ball that far, even in batting practice. I told the boys, ‘If you all don’t believe in God, you better start.’ For that to happen today, we had some help.”)

Three times, Jose attempted to defect from Cuba to the US unsuccessfully, and after each failed attempt he was put in prison where, still a boy, he shared space with hard and dangerous men. In 2007, at the age of 15, he made the crossing successfully, but not before somebody on his boat was washed overboard. Fernandez, operating on the pure instinct of a boy that age, when right and wrong seem clear, and your body, your entire life, is still radiant and unlimited, dove into the night waters to save the person. He had no idea who had been swept into the ocean, and with each stroke he took, an eight-foot wave grabbed him, lifting him up into the shifting darkness above, before splashing down and submerging him again. The person, somewhere before him, bobbing in and out of sight, was his mother. He got to her, told her to hold tight to his left shoulder, asked her not to push down, and slowly swam her back to the boat.

Imagine that.

Imagine doing something so great with your life.

His baseball career was short and beautiful and joyous. It was something to behold, each start an event I got excited for, anticipating it the same way some other people might anticipate a new Game of Thrones episode or a Bruce Springsteen concert.

He was, in a word, awesome, and his death was a tragedy for the communities he lived amongst, and even beyond, even to a 50 year-old white guy living in Toronto who found himself trying to explain to his wife why he’s crying about the death of some pitcher on his fantasy baseball team.

The boat Fernandez was on the night of his death was traveling around 55-60 mph. He was with two of his friends, both around his age, and it was late. It would have been dark, black even– nothing but the feel of water beneath and sky above. Everything beautiful, the wind and spray and stars in his face, infinity spreading out in all directions…And Jose Fernandez, soon to be a father, moving into the future with such velocity, confidence and hard earned momentum… And then the boat hit a rock jetty and all three of the men died on impact.

Just like that.

They would not have known what had happened.

Our lives are so brief.

We’re all speeding through the dark, the beautiful and the damned, alike, each one of us luckier and more vulnerable than we could ever imagine.

This is a vast question, one that the Globe and Mail is trying to answer by asking some writers their thoughts on the matter. I am flattered to say that I was one of the writers they asked, and this was my response:

*********************************

A real man must have a healthy respect for nature. 

A real man knows that humidity is a festering curse, so if the Humidex rises much above 30, he will stay inside with the AC cranked. He does this because he is smart and powerful and worldly. The real man never retreats, he merely lies in wait until favourable conditions arise. 

A real man is also wary around birds.

He believes flight to be cheating and does not trust cheaters.

If any cheater birds come around a real man’s family, that bird would be a fool. A real man will wave his arms about and shriek, he will do whatever it takes to keep that bird from attacking his family.

Even if his family can be ungrateful and mocking.

That sort of stuff just rolls off a real man’s back.

A real man knows how to build a scarecrow to keep birds off the property he rents, too. If the real man lacks money because of his integrity, because he’s unwilling to be a sheep and get a “job” working for some soulless corporation or media conglomerate, then he will scavenge goods to create his scarecrow, and his scarecrow would be just as good, and a lot more scary, than any fancy, professionally manufactured scarecrow.

A real man is not scared to use coupons.

He is industrious.

And his fearfulness makes him fearless.

And if he cries easily, like when Jon Snow had to kill his red-headed, Wildling girlfriend on GOT, or when a sweet, little gymnast just nails the program she’s worked so hard on, it is only because he feels things so strongly. 

A real man feels it in the gut.

He feels it in the gut hard.

You must understand that.

When at a party and spotting a turntable, the real man knows that it is his duty to assume all DJ responsibilities. He doesn’t shirk from this the way a not-real man might, but he owns the goddamn responsibility. He was born to educate the world by playing the barely recognizable esoterica from his youth. He was born to explain things to people.

And so, the real man won’t be bothered by all the pretty women rolling their eyes and leaving the dance floor. He won’t care that they call him DJ BuzzKill and make fun of his leather bomber jacket. In such a situation, the real man would be crying because the complicated beauty of his music had touched him in a holy way, that is all. 

The real man used to be really good at sports.

Tall, powerful and with flowing, blonde locks and a fastball that exceeds 100 mph, he has the distinct aura of the divine about him. He had a tough time early in the game, but seemed to gather confidence and strength as it wore on.

David Wright, veteran third baseman and captain of the Mets served as his human interpreter at the press conference after the Mets victory:

Alice Gwyn, Yahoo Sports: “Thor, you seemed a little confounded on the mound out there as the game started. The Royals kept getting hits off you no matter what you threw. How did you adjust?”

David Wright, human translator:

Thor says, “I could not believe that even as I shattered their puny mortal weapons, sundering them like match sticks with my offerings, they still managed to get little, dinky hits! It was black magic, I tell you! I looked to my captain and said, “What dark arts are these? Surely Loki is behind such enchantments!”

But in truth, never once did I stop believing in my mighty immortal powers, powers which you can see were reflected in the final score.”
Joe Ainsley, New York Post: “Good effort out there, Thor. The first pitch of the game was quite an eye opener. Was the high and tight fastball that levelled Royals lead-off hitter Alcides Escobar meant to convey a message and change the tone in the series?”

David Wright, human translator:

Thor laughs heartily! He throws his golden locks behind his head, saying, the pitch was meant to convey that Alcides is a pitiful mortal and I am the immortal Thor! The Royals, a team that little changeling girl Lordes wrote a song about, needed to know they were in New York now and that things are very different in New York. I smote him. He will not be a factor in this series again. The pitiful human mewling from the Royals dugout after that, little kittens scared of a thunder, made Thor laugh. Verily, it was a good time.”

Benedict Summers, New York Times: “Thor, I have to say, it was good to see the God of Thunder so in control of things tonight, and wow, you are really, really crazy numinous tonight, blinding. Anyway, what would you say was the single most important thing to you being able to pitch such a gritty, consistent and powerful game?”

David Wright, human translator:

“Being a God and immortal status, for sure. I just reached deep into my well of divinity and kept throwing pitches of fire that I knew mortals would not be able to hit. Just stuck to my game plan. Also, the presence of the great Billy Joel at the game, and the playing of Piano Man,

was both touching and inspirational! It was like I was back in Valhalla at the hall of Bilskirnir! Thor, God of Thunder, thanks you all very much, but he must now go and feast and ice the immortal arm!”

( Thanks to Yael Friedman for the idea!)

While he currently holds a job as a Toronto City Councillor, he also works as an onsite volunteer at the Humane Society where his duties including dog walking, bottle feeding (kittens and some birds) and much, much more. However, this is not enough for the man and he has just started a weekly Advice Column for the media giant BuzzFeed:

ASK THE EX-MAYOR

Dear Ex-Mayor:

I am a HUGE Game of Thrones fan!!! Do you really think Jon Snow is dead? I don’t want him to be dead. He can’t be dead. Please don’t let him be dead!!

Super fan from Vaughan

A: My brother Doug and I are massive fans of The Game. Just huge. It’s one of the few shows that’s able to mix sex, nudity and violence with class, and it’s wholesome enough that you can watch it with your kids, too. Good life lessons in GOT, good life lessons. Five out of five on the Rob-O-Meter.

Kinda reminds me of Miami Vice in that way. You could always count on Crockett and Tubbs ( Remember to take the BuzzFeed quiz: Are you Crockett or Tubbs?) to teach you right from wrong.

My brother Doug and I used to watch that show all the time. We dressed up as ’em for Halloween, too, and always used to get in a fist fight over who got to be Crockett. Doug always won because he was the eldest, but it didn’t bother me too much, because I liked dressing up in black face and speaking in that crazy Jamaican accent. Didn’t know that wasn’t considered “politically correct” until after I was mayor. Whatever. People don’t know how to have fun.

Those were good times, though. Miss the good times. Miss ’em pretty bad.

Anyway, I don’t think that Jon Snow is dead. They did something weird with his eyes at the end and I think that means he went to live in his wolf-slave, or that maybe he’s returning as a White Walker, so don’t despair Super Fan!
Dear Ex-Mayor:

I’ve been dating a terrific guy for six months. We have a lot of interests in common and I love spending time with him, but lately I’ve been feeling that our core values aren’t aligned. I’m a lifelong Christian and I know what is right and wrong biblically. He’s a Christian too, but he told me that he lost his virginity and has no regrets about it even though he knows it’s religiously wrong. This upsets me because as a Christian I know premarital sex is not allowed. He’s a good man and I don’t want to lose him, but he’s sinning! What should I do?

Conflicted Christian

A: The one thing we know about Jesus, other than that he had a beard, is that he’s forgives EVERYTHING. He recently forgave me all my Ashley Madison sins, and my wife, whom Jesus had put in a pretty tight corner by forgiving me so quickly, had to cut me some friggin’ slack, too, as she knew I had Godly absolution. I tell you, the holy Lord is the best goddamn lawyer of all time.

But for Jesus to forgive your sins of the flesh, you first have to make ’em. So, whatever you do, whether you decide to remain true to your faith and only give your man a hand job, or if you cave in and screw his brains out with U2 blasting, Jesus will still think you’re cool! He’ll give you the keys to his kingdom whatever you do! I know it’s weird, but it’s true. I tell you, Jesus is a bloody rock star, the Bono of his time.

You’re gold, Conflicted Christian, so sex it up!
Dear Ex-Mayor:

How do I come out to my homophobic parents?

Anonymous, age 15
A:

You’re a fruit, eh?

Geez.

Boy, don’t know what to tell you.

Really scratching my head here.

I guess it all just kind of grosses me out. Don’t want to think about it and have those images in my head. Anyway, good luck and go Blue Jays!

And as most of you also know, Donald Trump is an absolute master of Twitter, (@realDonaldTrump) a medium which is quickly becoming the primary means of disseminating thought and information. In case you’ve forgotten, here are some of Trump’s most penetrating, brilliant and revealing Tweets:

“If Obama resigns from office NOW, thereby doing a great service to the country—I will give him free lifetime golf at any one of my courses!”

“Everyone knows I am right that Robert Pattinson should dump Kristen Stewart. In a couple of years, he will thank me. Be smart, Robert.”

(That is not Robert Pattinson in the above photographs)

“The concept of global warming was created by and for the Chinese in order to make U.S. manufacturing non-competitive.”

“I have never seen a thin person drinking Diet Coke.”

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Ever the iconoclast, Trump has decided to participate in the Presidential debate via Twitter, limiting his answers to a blunt 140 characters. These are some of the Tweets that Trump and his team have been preparing for the night:

On the Charleston shooting:

“Tragedy. National tragedy. As an olive branch from the whites, I am offering any black $100 worth of gambling chips, free, at any of my casinos on the anniversary of that church shooting.”

“Mixed race guests get $50 worth of chips, which is still a great deal.”

Gay Marriage:

“Know lots of gay people. Best decorators in the world. They’re responsible for making my hotels look so great. Terrific race.”

“A couple of them have won Celebrity Apprentice, so I’m obviously not a bigot, even though I am big time Hetero.”

“I’ve slept with a lot of beautiful women.”

Health Care:

“Obamacare is a heat-seeking missile that will rape and destroy small businesses and jobs.”

“Hillary is a socialist, she doesn’t understand business, so I’m telling her once you rape small business, there are consequences, you can’t just go and get an abortion.”

“I would set up a different, much better, more luxurious system than we have now. It would have the Trump stamp of quality.”

ISIS:

“These guys just opened a hotel, can you believe it? Not only have they declared war on America, but now they’re going to war against me.”

“If I can make billions of dollars and build quality golf courses and real estate, I can destroy ISIS.”

“Donald Trump has never lost a war.”

“ISIS, what a bunch of chumps.”
The Mexican Border:

“I’m going to build a wall to keep Mexicans in Mexico, and you know it will be a solid, quality wall because it will be made by Trump builders. ”

“You know that wall in Game of Thrones? It will put that to shame, it will put China to shame, it will be the wall to end all walls, like the Trump Taj Mahal Casino in…”

“….exciting and beautiful Atlantic City. My fantastic casino has an exotic Indian theme–7-11 Indian though, not casino Indian.”

“No Mexicans will ever get through my wall to steal American jobs and water.”

“Is Salma Hayek Mexican? Classy lady. Beautiful, unlike most Mexican women who tend to be plain–they just don’t look after themselves as a people.”

I had major, very complicated surgery, and for two weeks after the operation– first thing in the morning– the attending nurse would always ask me if I knew where I was. It was a simple question, one that I found a little bit insulting even, but the truth was that I just wasn’t sure.

I mean, I knew who I was, that I’d had heart surgery and was in hospital, but I wasn’t clear on what hospital, or where this hospital was located. Some days I thought I was in Montreal, other days Ottawa, sometimes when I heard the rhythms of an African tongue, I believed I was in Cape Town. Depending on the accents, language and ethnicity of those around me, I imagined I was in India, Australia or China, occasionally, even in Toronto, the city in which all of this was unfolding.

Each day was like waking into a dream, a realm where things were still being shaped. The people moving about in my field of vision were distant from me. It was like they existed in another dimension, and communication was mysterious, even impenetrable, as if something fundamentally untranslatable existed between us. I was, I guess, still disconnected from the conscious, living world and through fogs of trauma and medication, remained a spectator to the existent.

I communicated with very few people during this time, but I did send texts to my wife Rachelle. These are some of the ones I sent to her during the early stages of my recovery:

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Very thirsty. Want popsicle but they won’t let me have popsicle. The nurses are all very mean! Don’t understand. Please bring popsicle. CHERRY.

Why are you not here with popsicles? Very lonely. Very lonely for popsicle.

I love you.

Did I miss the spring?

Why are we in Africa? Were we visiting Douglas?

Oh. Not in Africa. Nurse said that, but thought she was lying.

Am scared when the machines beep. They are sounding an alarm to say that something in my body is broken or on fire.

I miss your blue, blue eyes.

My nurse is an assassin. Cruel eyes and self-loathing. Might be a serial killer. Am terrified when brings me my pills. Must kill her patients and then gets drunk at night, feeling powerful.

I want to be in a lake. Dog just about to jump in from the dock.

What’s going on in Game of Thrones? Has everybody been raped and killed or do some survive?

Food here not made with love. Sort of thing you give jailed enemy.

Do I have jailed enemies now?

Would like to have several jailed enemies. That would be AWESOME.

Brian and Laura should be thrown in tower.

Never heard a word from them. They only care about volleyball and renting house for Pan-Am games.

Is Hunstman spider fastest land creature? Can’t remember.

I want to sit on a sloped field of green with you and our son Jones, drinking lemonade on a checkered blanket, the world around us.