dear beleaguered,
of all the fucking nerve. i can't believe the depth of a moron's soul. not you, dear. i was talking to my niece. i took your advice and walked across plain and vale until i arrived at the mountain's feet. there, atopmost the crags and peaks, i spoke with the guru, and, on your behalf, i begged him,"guru. . . what of my dreams may i keep and upon which may i loose my grasp?" the guru looked at me with aged eyes and belched,"go to the river, child, and fill your hands with the sand of the bank. then, take these handfulls-wherein each single grain shall be as a single hope spoken through your heart's own voice-and swim directly upstream against the faceless currents. once you arrive at the source look into your palms, and whatever grains of sand remain, those are the dreams that you can keep. the ones lost to the river shall remain as a tribute in the silt on the bed." i left the guru there on the mountain, and i did all that he said. and guess what? not only did i not have a single fucking grain of sand left, but i think i caught a cold and some sort of river parasite as well. that fink. seriously, guys, don't go to the guru on the mountain. i don't think he's even a foreigner. his rates suck, too. my advice to you, then, is to do the adult thing and marry the dead man.

cheers,
abby boom babby