Letter Home From Camp

Dear Mom and Dad,

Things are weird here. The camp director has surrounded himself with squirrels. I believe they are his personal army. I tried to shake his hand and a big brown one flew at my hand and bit me. How does he command their loyalty? Sometimes he balances grapes on his nipple tips and the squirrels launch themselves in the air and snatch the grapes. I want to come home but I know the squirrels won't let me.



The cabins we live in are primitive. My bed is hay. My pillow is dead birds. Spiders crawl in and out of my mouth. To them, I'm just a piece of terrain to cross. I am human! I deserve respect!

The trees here make noises like old people make. Remember the moaning man at grandma's nursing home? They sound like that. Something fell from a branch one day. It was a VHS tape filled with human teeth.



We came across a baby in the woods. He was swaddled in a Judas Priest t-shirt. This dickhead kid named Gerald put it in his backpack. He fed it Doritos and licorice, but I don't think babies like that stuff because it wouldn't stop crying. The camp director heard about the baby and took it away from Gerald. That night, one of the squirrels pissed on Gerald's face while he was sleeping.

My bowels are white and they move in the toilet. I'm listening to a lot of Prince.

They made this one kid dig his own grave and sleep in it for 3 nights because he said the camp director smells like horse cum. He does, though.

One of our counselors drilled a hole in a globe and lubed it up. We fuck it. The hole is near Brazil.

This letter might not find you in time. If I die here, don't look through my stuff. Just don't. I miss you guys so much and can't wait to leave this place. I love you both.