Condensed form that is two parts bitter, angry old man wringing his fist at a world that refuses to change, the other being a river otter haphazardly whittling away at a keyboard. In less obnoxious terms, I write things sometimes.
A Rich Man's Confession
Dear Random Person I Shall Most Likely Never Meet but Nonetheless Have Eternally Affected, You're probably wondering what the hell this little black journal is all about, and, more importantly, where the hell this $20,000 came from, and, more mysteriously, how you, of all people, came across it. And those are questions I shall answer in due time, but I want to ask you to consider something before you read on further:
I always thought it was a cruel joke that everyone, at some point in human history, looked at everything as symbolic. I closed the door to my four door sedan and began the slow ascent up the gravel driveway to the "Family Cabin" that was flanked on all sides by towering, spindly pines that gazed down at me as I entered the sacred hall of "solitude" (hint: the cabin was only five miles outside of town, hence the quotes around solitude). This was the same family cabin that had been passed down through my grandparents onto my mom and then, eventually, whenever I figure out the hell I'm doing with my life, it would be passed down unto me. Which is terrifying because, well, what do you do when you have a giant old, creaky, downright haunted piece of real estate that you only use to sit behind a laptop and keyboard? Look at the trees, see some faces in there and divine some weird-ass story about finding yourself in nature?