Dear Mom and Dad,

How are you?

Mom, I hope you have found some relief from your combination rosacea and ingrown toenail issue. I know you’ve spent the past two weeks naked in an Arizona desert under the spell guidance of your shamanic healer, M.T. Cornhusk. I also know that he believes the two conditions are connected. I fail to see how, but who am I to debate an esteemed and internet-certified sage? I don’t want that on my karmic conscience. 

And Dad, based on our last conversation, I’m curious as to whether you’ve changed your mind about the upcoming election in November. I’m not referring to your insistence that the wearing of two MAGA hats at once – one hanging from each ear – proves that you’re brainwashed a true patriot. While I contend that that would be a fashion faux pas, the bigger mistake is your abiding belief that a treasonous woman-hater should be running the country. But hey, you gotta be you, right? (In our next conversation, I hope you’ll remember that I don’t gotta be you though…)

ANYHOW, I digress. The real reason for this correspondence is to tell you that it’s finally happened.

No. I haven’t abandoned my “pathetic and lonely existence” (Aunt Lucy’s words, not mine) and finally found my Prince Charming whom I will marry in a gloriously hypocritical and all-white display of virginal purity. To be honest, if I were to get married at this point, it would probably be to a woman. Or a guanaco. I love their glassy eyes and what I can only describe as decisive eyelashes. A woman guanaco would be the whole package. Ideal. Let me be clear though, Mom. This is in no way a request for such a creature. With your spiritual advisor currently traipsing somewhere through South America, you may be inclined to ask about such things. Please don’t. 

Also, no need to get excited about the prospect that I’ve finally drifted away from my “meaningless vocational existence.” (Again, that’s from Aunt Lucy. With that sizable gout on her neck and her rabid adoration for the television show COPS that compelled her to buy every episode on Blu-Ray, I think she should really be focusing on her OWN tenuous existence. Don’t you agree?) Anyhow, I am fully aware that being a rehabilitator for wounded animals does not carry with it the prestige of, say, brain surgeon. It also doesn’t carry with it the very real potential for ulcers or other stress-related auto-immune diseases. And while such work may not afford me status (or occasionally rent), it is an activity that has sustained me and filled me with something akin to joy. And no, Dad. It was never concerned me that my line of work may get snatched up by one of those “brown illegals,” as your (un)spiritual adviser FOX News refers to them. Speaking of FOX News, did you know that FOX News can’t be labeled as a news channel in Canada? In 2011, the Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC) ruled that, under Canadian broadcasting regulations, they didn’t meet the requirements to be considered a “mandatory channel for digital basic service.” Just a fun fact. In case you’re interested in facts. Which you clearly aren’t. 

Okay. Focus. The real reason I’m writing is to tell you that I’m leaving. Probably forever. So I thought you should know.

Given my adoration for Canada (for reasons that go beyond their ability to properly classify things), you might assume that I’m going there. And if it were possible for me to become a frostback, ya betcha sweet patootie I would, ay. Turns out our neighbors to the north aren’t exactly clambering for Americans to relocate there. I know this because I diligently researched it and tried every workaround including but not limited to batting my eyes, bribery, offering copious amounts of beer, and groveling. Apparently, that’s just the sort of boorish American behavior they eschew. And I get it. I was embarrassed for myself. As my parents, you should be too. I don’t blame Canada though. I’d be lying if I said I weren’t sad about their rules. But truth be told, they were my second solution. And only because I was about to give up on my first. 

But that first solution has finally presented itself. 

No, Mom. It is not tied with potions, creams, magic mushrooms, or dances with mythical creatures. And no, Dad. Despite your rather misguided suggestions in the past, it doesn’t involve me serving a life sentence for my involvement in a plot to off the current president. (Yep. Current president. The guy the country actually elected.) But it does involve me leaving forever. Because I’m finally going home.

Calm down! I’m not referring to the kingdom of heaven. Jesus! This isn’t a suicide note! And I haven’t done anything so drastic as find the lord or become a god-fearing Christian. (I just threw up in my mouth a little there.) Nope.

It turns out that the mothership has, at long last, ARRIVED. I’ve been waiting over 50 years for those bastards to come back and get me. You can’t be that surprised though. I mean, look. We all knew it was bound to happen eventually. I’m clearly not from around here. As a child, I had an unusual disdain for sleepover parties, hamburgers, and ice cream. I felt a deep connection with the misfit toys in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As a teenager, my popularity was inversely measured by my utter repulsion to MTV, drinking, and sex. And while I befriended drinking in my 20s and 30s which led to a tolerance for sex, by my mid-30s, that party was over. I never wanted kids. They’re noisy and expensive and ungrateful. And sometimes they smell. Plus, what earthly reason could I possibly have for making MORE people!? I already find live music and sporting events uncomfortably loud and too crowded. Adding insult to injury, in recent years, the internet and social media have revealed a level of stupidity that went from barely tolerable to “please stick knitting needles into my eyes and ears now so I can go Helen Keller on this shit show.”  

Worst of all, I still hate ice cream. 

So it’s time. I have to go. 

I will say that I wish they’d come back for me sooner though. Because I’ve grown rather attached to both of you, as well as the sibs. My tribal beings say that a cereplex injection into my gorpenflexor (their words, not mine) will wipe away all memories of this place. And while I’m mostly okay with that, it makes me sad to think that I won’t remember the smattering of people and animals who loved me. And the flowers. I love the flowers. But I believe I will be a better Zyphonian for that love. In the meantime, take care of each other on this zany rock. Caring is what kept me sane. And I’ll see if my new tribe can leave some of that cereplex behind. For Aunt Lucy, of course. 

Love to both of you and the sibs too. It’s been real.

Zelda