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Dear Fellas,

I can't believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw a nigger once when I was a kid, but now they're everywhere.

The world went and got itself in a big damn moon cricket mess. The medical board got me into this scooter called a fat cart, and a nurse that don't speak English from Haiti. It's hard therapy. I try to keep up, but my hand hurts most of the time. I don't think the care manager likes me very much. Sometimes after therapy I go to the park and scream slurs at the nogs. I keep thinking Nef might just show up and say hello, but he never does. I hope wherever he is, he's doing okay and making new friends.

I have trouble sleeping at night. I have -- bad dreams, like I'm not getting what I voted for. I wake up with my balls flattened. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember patriots are in control. Maybe I should get me a gun and rob the Shape Store, so they'd send me back to the hospital. I could shoot myself in the balls while I was at it, sort of like a bonus. I guess I'm too crippled for that sort of nonsense anymore. I don't like it here. I'm tired of winning all the time. I've decided not to vote. I doubt they'll kick up any fuss, not for an old cripple like me.

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