A Letter To My Hardworking American Family
My dearest family and friends,
As I write, I am sitting in the peaceful comfort of a private suite. I am thoroughly enjoying the process of digesting my lunch of nationally recommended vegetables and whole grain breads, while savoring the lingering taste of frozen fruit (tropical blend with pineapple, I believe). I have an appointment with my psychologist in an hour because he wants to inquire deeply into my family history; more particularly, he wants me to tell him all about my early childhood. I plan on confessing my dizzying emotional complex; surely it will require three more months of treatment. Perhaps I will dive into my severe jealousy of my younger brother. I can tell you now that the doctor will find a million easy reasons to keep me here, in isolation. After all, it is in his best interest to keep me as a patient.
Compare my present status to some of our more unintelligent friends:
I am sure you remember our late Uncle Unnamed and his wife, Aunt Anonymous. They spent their lives just trying to get through school, losing hundreds of nights of sleep and wiping years off of their life expectancy. They tried to find nice, high paying careers, but only Uncle Unnamed could keep his slowly advancing place in the workforce. Aunt Anonymous had to stay home and raise the four children that came down upon the family like noisy, baby birds. Their constant struggle for survival is tragic!
I must ask you, dear friend, why this is. Why is it that such a hard-working family receives no reward, no end to their suffering? What have they to look forward to? We can’t retire until all of our youth has been sucked from us. So how have people like me, come to make their way in the world? Well, I have an answer. It’s so simple, I can’t believe it took me so long to realize.
I was seventeen years old when I made my first offense. I did it on accident, but I have found it to be the best mistake I ever made. They sent me to juvenile detention, and I had to miss a few days of school. It was the first time that I didn’t have to worry about bossy teachers, math equations, or English papers. I was finally able to hear myself think. So I sat in the quiet confinement and enjoyed the chance to do so.
As I sat, I thought about my life; I asked myself why I had tried so hard. And it was then that I began to have my vision opened up before me. I could see the different colors of dirt within the bricks in front of the small chair where I sat.
I made a plan, and, being the genius that I am, it occurred just the way I expected.
She was a frail looking woman, obviously in pain. I caught her struggling to walk home from the grocer a few weeks after I was let out on bail. Of course, she would have thanked me for my mercy, had she been able to do so after I strangled her. It was pretty quick, and just clean enough to not be obvious. The way I look at it, society will thank me when they don’t have to pay for her healthcare. It’s not like she’s going to get better; life is degenerative!
Because no one anticipated such an action, I had all the cards out for my trial. I could have played anything and been successful. “I saw it on TV… I was on medications I found… I was depressed… I am clinically insane…” Or I could have simply pleaded guilty and given them no reason at all. It’s not as though they want to know why you killed her; once they know it was you, nothing matters.
Even at the beginning of this new life, I couldn’t have predicted all of the amazing benefits. In addition to the accommodations I mentioned earlier, it’s much easier to move up the social ladder. You see, when everyone expects you to be an insane delinquent, incapable of anything productive, they instantly progress you at the slightest sign of improvement. I didn’t have to go to some interview where I would try to prove how much I knew, and how good I will be at the job for which I had little experience with. Instead, I went with a reputation for murder and everyone assumed that I was incapable of doing anything useful.
So when I was told I would have to work here, I started out cleaning bathrooms, but I quickly moved up to work at the library. And I shouldn’t even call it work, it’s more of a pastime. I’ve taken up reading and writing in my on-the-side free time. The chairman even says I can enroll in some state-paid online college courses, if I so wish.
I’ve also made a few friends among the more enlightened crowd of repeat offenders. They feel it’s too much of an opportunity to want to leave such a life of prosperity. I very much enjoy speaking with them and I am able to do so quite often in our Social-Helps Meetings. I have told them that it is my ultimate goal to write a book. (Of course I would never relay any of this information to my psychologist; he thinks I am incapable and insane. Best to keep him happy, eh?)
Ah, here comes Jones now (I fondly call him Butler). It must be my appointment with Dr. Green. I will try to write as soon as I can; perhaps in a week or two, depending on how full my schedule is.
With lots of love and admiration for all that you do,
Your Beloved Inmate
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