Dear My Back,
Do you think I’m stupid, My Back? Goldfishian in my recollection? Are you laboring under the misconception that I’m just a mobile, vaguely human-shaped pile of pudding? No, My Back, I have My Brain. And My Brain knows what you’re doing, asshole.
Your little pings and pops and twitches are known to me, My Back! I recognize your little warm-up noises, like tremors before a quake, and that tightness up my left flank. Or maybe it’s my loin. Damn you, My Back, I do not know precisely how to divide my body into cuts of meat, but you know what I’m saying. It is this: I see you, dickhead. I AM A PATTERN-RECOGNITION MACHINE WITH HAIR, YOU FUCKFACED FACE.
I know you’re gonna seize. A minute from now or tomorrow or Tuesday: I do not know precisely when, but I know that it will be soon, and I need you to understand something, My Back.
I will get you for this, motherfucker
More empty threats from the homunculus imprisoned in flesh. Is that what you’re thinking, My Back? You’re not stupid to think so; there’s very little I can do. But I can do this:
Yes, it’s Affleck. And, yes, it’s real. And, yes, My Back: if you continue down this painful path, that’s what you’re going to look like.
Not the tattoo, My Back.
All of it. The whole tableaux. Sad, chubby, divorced Affleck alone on a beach thinking about walking into the ocean and ending it all WITH the world’s worst tattoo on his back. I’m going to ink this on your face, My Back. And then I’m going to get in shape and stop wearing shirts. And all the other backs will see you, and they will fucking laaaaaaaugh at your ugly ass, My Back. And who’s gonna love you then? No head or ass for this back! I WILL RUIN YOU.
Let’s not have it come to that. Let’s be friends, My Back, or at least congenial associates. We’re all on the same team here, so get with the program or you’ll bear the mark of Cain for life. (Cain in this case being represented by Ben Affleck’s hairy hamstrings.)
Sincerely,
George Hearst
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