Tyrannia Read Online Free PDF Page B

if you don’t have friends. It’s not advised where you are going. Finding friends, that is. I know this, I lurked there in my salad days. Don’t self-edit, but avoid embarrassment. Don’t assume everyone is staring at you because you’re crazy. You might be crazy, but that’s probably not why they’re staring at you. There are beasts in the old growth forest where you are going, and not all of them are quadrupeds. I’ve packed Deep Woods Off. It could help. What we’re talking about is honesty. An honesty in assessing situations you don’t understand.
    I’m trying to wipe that frown off your face. Maybe you should take my pulse. But be sure to return it as soon as you’re done with it. That’s funny. I like staring at depressed people. I wonder if they think of me ever. But then I go to work. Oh, work works me into a frenzy. There’s this game I play. I print out hundreds of pages when the printer is low on toner. How long can I go before anyone says anything? I guestimate displeasure. You must be thinking: so kill an octopus and be done with it, already! But then it’s 5. The money grows on the money tree and I pluck some off every two weeks. Which allows for your room and board and your gratitude. Your father might think differently about this. I’ve also packed peanuts, grapes, and a mallet. If you really want “PB&J,” as the supermarket calls it, you can do with these tools what you will. That type of food doesn’t exist at the camp. You will doubtless be sleeping inside a cabin that used to be a concession stand.
    Don’t assume I’m taking you down a peg for the sake of it. For pity’s sake. The gap between loving you and wanting you to be happy—there is a difference, do not doubt me—is one I travel through every day. It’s more of a gulch. Sometimes I think it would be much easier if I were in a cult. A good countryside cult, where I could wear robes and raise legumes. It would help my complexion. Don’t you think? Is my skin cold? Take my hand again. Nobody’s watching. Ignore them!
    When I was a girl—your look reminded me of something—I wanted a sawed off shotgun. I liked the way holding one sounded. Ideally, I would have received it as a gift. They say the same thing about tarot cards—better to be given a deck or steal one rather than buy one. The first was out of the question. The shotgun I stole was your grandfather’s, no problem, he had plenty of shotguns and it wasn’t as if he’d miss just one. I think you’d remember him from the sanatorium. There was a woodshed in our acreage. I commenced sawing there. But I wasn’t sure where on the barrel to saw. This happened on a Sunday. I was without skill, being your age, and my hand slipped. The left pinky finger gashed on the saw tooth. As it turned out, the gun was also loaded, which was unfortunate. When I fell, the trigger kicked back and that finger blew right off like dandelion seeds. This was bigger than a mere scratch. I know this is a surprise to you, because of the verisimilitude of this finger I’m holding in front of you. Plastics make it probable. When Dad came in the woodshed for his nightly libations, he found me under his workbench and after the surgery I was on a train to Camp Cudgel Springs.
    This is a lot to digest. Okay, you can let go again. You’ve warmed me up nicely. Look at the Snoopy backpack I got for you. Be sure to try it on before you need to run, such as from a serial killer who approaches your cabin. Not that I think that will happen. Or maybe he will only want a glass of water. You don’t really have a “kill me, eat me” face. Camp changed my life as it will change yours. I was the youngest there, as you will be. This is healthy. See the parallels? Our lives are two rails, side by side, holding a locomotive in place. On the first day at camp I tried to run away. I had a clever plan. I made a map with a stick on the ground, choosing a certain black ant that seemed to be of independent spirit