Because I Live in a Bunker Now

BECAUSE I LIVE IN A BUNKER NOW, dear Mother, with this guy named Burroughs, I won’t be accepting the invitation that you left on my phone last week for Sunday dinner. There are unfortunately no windows here. Sometimes I can hear birds through the vents that lead outside and the outside leads back in, and I think it may be morning, mid afternoon, but it cannot be winter, yet. It is cold down here, so I leave the oven on most of the day, and try not to think about what could happen and if this is wrong. I simply open the melted iron latch and let the hot air out for 24 hours straight. If someone had told me not to do this I would remember. There were a few bulbs that flickered on and off at the most inopportune times. I have fixed this problem by unscrewing the tops, leaving their heads still halfway in so that their necks won’t break off and splinter on the floor into small pieces. My job is one of prevention. My cat will be safe. The only thing I haven’t figured out is sleeping. When this guy snores, lately I’ve wanted to smash his face in, and it happens a lot. He seems to be on a feeding schedule and every 3 hours he wakes up, goes to the fridge, and looks inside. You may be interested to know I’ve named his parasitic twin, and given it a Japanese pronunciation, and we laugh when I yell at him cause we both know it’s directed at his Other, so we are all OK for now. Today is Monday, and I suppose this news is rather late in arrival, but Sunday was never our day anyway. It belongs to bread bakers and families with last names.