Drunk on truth to stupid baby power.

Greetings from Your Apartment’s Previous Tenant, who Still Gets Increasingly Distressing Mail at Your Place


Heyyy! Thank you so much for texting me about the mail. Your concern is really touching. And I wish I was always able to answer texts. Sometimes my phone will fall into a sewer grate or an alligator’s mouth, or sometimes I’ll just need to take a break from all the “text text text” we humans do nowadays, you know what I mean? It’s like, get out there and really live life! Look at the sky! Have an orgy! Get shot into outer space on an illegal, experimental rocketship!

And I’m sorry about the way I left the apartment before I moved in. Please tell me you left the hall closet as is in case I ever decided to get in touch with you. At some point I am going to need to pick up my gimp suit, antique musket collection, my letters from Commodore Morales, and Alfred (that’s the albino squid in the tank. You’ve been feeding him, right? He takes mostly shrimp and tuna, deveined, if you make him a sandwich cut off the crusts).

Apparently I have a few jury duty notices, and a handful of other “You have to appear in court, you have to pay the fine for not showing up in court, blah blah”-type pieces of mail. Since the only law I respect is the mysterious yet swift justice of Commodore Morales, you can toss those.

You might have also received some mail from the King of Jordan. Man, that guy is so thirsty.

You might get some bill collectors coming to the house. Don’t open the door for them. They could be Commodore Morales in disguise.

I probably have mail from the IRS and/or the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. If people from either of those organizations come by, feel free to let them in. They’ll see that your place is no compound, and that I don’t even live there anymore—I live wherever the wind takes me, just like it says on my W2.

If a certain reporter who will stop at nothing to get that big scoop comes by, tell him what I told him: that I thought what we had was real, and that he should be ashamed of himself.

You might get some mail addressed to Commodore Morales—you can toss it. Those are mostly royalty checks, and he’s a millionaire now, so he doesn’t need these tiny payments from when he was in that band, The Commodores.

Finally, I’m changing my number because come on, people! Variety is the spice of life, live it up! Start a squid-worshipping sex cult, get involved in international crime! Take an extra lump of sugar in your tea! So this is just to let you know that you might not be able to get in touch with me for a while, but don’t worry, there’s no way I’m headed for some kind of huge fall.


2 Responses to “Greetings from Your Apartment’s Previous Tenant, who Still Gets Increasingly Distressing Mail at Your Place”

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