April 17,2003

Son,

I’m not your father because you don’t exist.  Nor does your mother.  She’s a dream.  “She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies…” (Even Byron can’t do her justice…)

Why am I writing to a fictional son? Because, in the end, apparently a man wants a legacy.  After all, that’s why I’m here.  In a cold dessert, with a flashlight in my mouth, trying to ignore Jazzman masturbating (I’ll tell you about that later; it’s cool, we all do it.)

So for now, I’ll pretend I have what keeps the others going.  I’m not one to fantasize about such things but war brings out something in a man.  A need to leave behind life instead of death.  Before I lose that, here are Aiden Hale’s Life Lessons to His Fictional Son in no particular order:

1. I’d be lying if I said I never snuggled with a dude.  If you’re freezing, do it (things shrink, perfectly normal).

2.  Pictures of tits above your bed are tacky.  Case in point, Jazzman.  Don’t do it.

3.  The rules with sex are (1) she says yes; (2) you use a condom (3) she goes first (easy to tell, I’ll explain later); (4) don’t be your father.

4.  Fall in love.  It has evaded me… until your mother, that is.  But I imagine it feels tremendous given the gaga-look Marshall gets over Jasmine.

 More later…

Your Father