Dear Mrs. Ditz,

It has come to my attention that one can die from drinking too much water. I can’t say I’m entirely surprised. I’m always suspicious of perfection, which is why I love you. I have since turned to Dr. Conman’s tincture of methamphetamine and rice vinegar as my liquid of choice, and it’s true: I feel more alive than ever.

Life as of late has been unbearably pleasant. The feeling is foreign. Ever since our prescriptive sojourn to the coast, I find myself counting the hours until my next scheduled arrangement and picking fights with small children in the interludes. Before me lies the opportunity to at last become the gentleman-scholar-athlete I envy, and yet – could it be? I miss my gout. My good, enduring, all-consuming gout that I so foolishly flushed with brackish waters. In truth I feel naked without it. All of my dreams at my fingertips, if only I just reached – what man could bear it?

I look forward to returning to you and to our tiresome quarrels. You, my love, my gout.

Yours faithfully,
Mr. Ditz