I made a couple more recycled chipboard notebooks -- this time for the spawn. Mr. Z is a big fan of the "Cheez-It," so he got this one:
And Miss O loves her the flakes of frosting:
I love making these things, and the amazing thing is, we haven't thrown out a chipboard box in two weeks. I can feel the earth cooling off already! Of course, the boxes are backing up down here in the basement -- can't quite keep up with the demand. The problem is the paper. The old lady finished that fancy grant of hers, and there's no more scratch paper coming in. Gots to get me some more of that stuff. It's like liquid gold... that's... made of... paper. Again, if'n I had any sort of motivation, I'd go out to, say, your Kinko's or your local library and see if they have any recycled paper they wanted to unload. But that would take effort and, thus, I have no paper.
Okay, so I was just going through a box of old shit and I came across an envelope full of letters that I sent to my parents from overnight camp, back in 1975. Allow me to vent for a second. What kind of sick parent sends a 10 year old, extremely "sensitive" young lad to northern Minnesota for four fucking weeks?! I cried like a goddamn shit-ass infant for 28 miserable days. Will someone tell me where the fuck DCFS was in 1975?!
Here is but a sample letter from my joyous, soul-crushing imprisonment near the boundary waters:
When you turn the letter over, it's just a dried stain where my tears of abandonment had once pooled. Can I get a what the shit?! I can't imagine sending Mr. Z off to another state for four weeks. Granted, he's only almost eight, but that boy ain't gonna be much more independent in two years, let me tell ya. And the thing that kills me is, my sister and brother weren't shipped off anywhere, apparently. The letter was addressed to my entire family, minus me.
Okay, now I'm pissed! What the fuck were they doing while I was weeping in the woods, wiping my ass with poison ivy and, most likely, fighting off the untoward advances of Uncle Bud. Yeah, that's right -- the counselors made us call them "Uncle" whatever. Holy fuck, the more I think about this, the sicker it sounds. Damn, my dad must've owed some dude a lot of money, or something. "Gee, we really can't seem to pay you the balance of what we owe you, Rocco. Tell you what, why don't you "borrow" my middle son for a month or so. It'll be fine -- he's kind of slow, anyway. We'll just tell him he's going to camp. Just let him shoot a bow and arrow every now and then, and he'll never be the wiser. Go ahead... take him."
No wonder I don't like to leave the fucking house.