As a child, P(at)rick had an ambiguous self-image made manifest by his O.C.D. And in his grade school years, he was afflicted with self-doubt. He overheard some teachers, cafeteria workers, and secretaries describe him as an ‘odd duck,’ and the open, odd stares of nearly everyone reinforced that description. A personal quandary: was he truly odd? Was odd really a bad thing? Miss Boehler, the school nurse, was summoned for evaluation and was quick to diagnose Body Dysmorphic Disorder based entirely on hope and that other little thing.
P(at)rick was perched high on a rusting support strut squinting through the dark into the lighted 2nd floor windows in hopes of seeing what boys will take ill-considered chances to see. He was holding onto the strut with one hand and holding onto his erect penis with the other. As luck would have it, he saw something he had never seen: BUSH! His indecent, unrestrained gasp caused him to lose his grip and end up on the ground below with a crooked arm and his flaccid member leaking in the dirt.
You, my inner-most circle, my most-trusted intimates deserve to know where you stand in said relationship with me, P(at)rick. There is between you one that I like more than the other. In due course, I
should like to reveal just who that favorite is. I will soon make my most preferred known via well-publicized announcement. At that time my favorite will receive a signed, notarized affidavit guaranteeing my loyalty in nearly equitable exchange for his fealty and a sumptuous meal at his table. The other will get a dead squirrel. And at my passing my favorite will be given the high honor of reading my prepared eulogy on a crowded public intersection specified with time and date in my will. The other will receive a short note from an unknown source containing a veiled threat.
