| October 7, 2002 |
After yet another inexcusable delay, I have finally managed to find the strength to publish once again, and once again, I find myself appearing before you, sweat-stained, foul-smelling hat in hand, to beg for your forgiveness. I have received your daily, if not hourly, denouncements, I assure you, and I cannot agree with you more. Your every stinging insult rings as true as the bathroom scale which informs me daily as to the status of my great journey into grotesque obesity. My lies and procrastination know no bounds, apparently, and though I am sincere in my repeated promises to adhere a more rigid production schedule, it seems to be a promise I am destined to forever make with forked tongue. But I assure you, my inability to rise from the hammock and accomplish what I have so often promised is not my only failing. No, not at all.
You see, it is at times like this, when I wallow in my own self pity like an overfed African hippopotamus, that I find myself reflecting on what has become of my life, and how I reached this sordid state. For indeed, despite my frequent boasts to the contrary, my tropical fortified compound is not the paradise I oft make it out to be. Lacking the manservants to properly care for the gardens, the palm fronds now lie strewn about like so much wasted foam core. The great lodge, which in the early days of my exile was home to Caligulian revelry rivaling the most decadent of agency holiday festivities, is now home to little more than the muskrats and wildebeests who have long claimed its overstuffed duvets as their own.
And the gentle company of women folk, it is but a distant memory. Perhaps it is the overwhelming stench of failure which now engulfs my very being and of which I am all too aware. Perhaps it is my reluctance to bathe regularly since the coconut husk tub can no longer withstand my girth. Or perhaps it’s the vicious rumors of body lice spread by a vengeful ex-consort. Regardless, for more evenings than I care count, I find myself unable to attract the attentions or favors of even the most unsightly of for-hire paramours, who now to my utter horror prefer the hard-earned pesos of low-country fishermen and blacksmiths to my corpulent form and thick rolls of American currency I so willingly offer for but a few moments of their time. The jungle is no place for the lonely of hearts, I'm afraid. Not at all..
Of course, as I well realize, I have brought all of this upon myself. If only I could have been more tolerant of all in this cursed industry that I found so absurd, and if only I had learned to cooperate rather than ridicule, I would not have been driven to self-exile, so far away from the conveniences of 21st century man.
After all, perhaps there is wisdom in creative briefs that I simply cared not to hear. Perhaps clients really are the most accurate arbitrators of what is worthy and what is unworthy of production. And in fact, maybe focus groups truly are the bellwethers of all knowledge that is good and pure.
But it seems that I shall never know, for my skepticism has reduced me to nothing more a talentless hack, adrift in a sea of my own misery and bile. The end shall not be a pleasant one for me, I’m afraid. No, not at all. While those who learned long ago to play the game have glad-handed their way into luxurious retirement cottages on the Nantucket shore, I will most likely remain here, awaiting little more than the worms and their incessant chewing. But it is a fitting fate, and given no alternative I will accept it as my own.
Hmm. Oddly enough, this purging of my soul has lifted my mood. Perhaps this was the proverbial bottom I needed to find before I could arise again. Or maybe the bathtub rum has finally pickled my brain beyond recovery. Regardless, I must apologize for this absurdly self-indulgent self-flagellation. It is an old habit, and I know not what got into me. Strange. I believe it is high time for a shower.
—The Editor
