(continued from here)

I will return soon to my hard-hitting four-part expose on wads of chewing tobacco in the right or left cheeks of journeymen baseballers and the morose tangents of remembered adolescent alienation the images of these brown-spitting baseballers inexplicably inspire, but an email from a friend convinced me that it might not be a bad idea if I take a day or two to . . . "rest." In honor of this decision, I am posting a photo of the harrowing Mitch Cohen album that carries the same title as my friend's email to me. The contents of said email are as follows:

"I must say, Joshua, that your blog is making me a bit uncomfortable lately.

"No, no, it's very interesting. No, the writing is uniformly excellent, and it's quite funny, and consistently entertaining as well.

"We're just all a little worried about y....well, what ever happened to that nice therapist you were starting to go see?

"I never even heard of Grady Paulson [sic]. But this multi-installment updating of 'A Seperate Peace,' or 'Lord of The Flies' or 'Take your pick of ANY disturbing piece of fiction dealing with savage, remorseless, entitled, boarding school students, the institutions themselves, the employees, the "traditions," the behavior of the students, and their travails' (huff-puff) has been leaving me with a nausea-inducing taste of vomit caking the inside of my gullet.

"I think you maybe, uh, could, uh, benefit from maybe, uh, speaking with someone.

"After rambling on about this hellish prep school you also never got back to Grady Paulson [sic], though I guess that's not really such a loss."

"Just a little worried is all, pal."