Trying to relax in the garden but Charlotte has other plans. We came to a truce. And she has something to say, btw.
To: the asshole lump squatting in iaia’s frontal lobe (the meeneencrap)
Cc: the entire nervous system & all cats and raisins everywhere
Subject: A formal declaration of hostility, disgust, and utter loathing. This-is-war-bucko!!!
Dear tumorous trollop,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Charlotte, Duchess of the Arctic Circle because I can and Rightful Overseer of All That Occurs in iaia’s Melon. You, however, are a freeloader goblin, a festering raisin of doom.
How dare you.
You waltz into our cerebral real estate, take up residence like some kind of moldy Airbnb guest, and what do you contribute? Crap, that’s what you contribute. Word loss. Memory hiccups. A distorted sense of smell so tragic it makes fresh coffee smell like battery acid. Coffee, the sacred elixir of mornings for iaia. Your sins are many.
Let me be crystal clear: this brain is taken. I have been the sole tenant of iaia’s inner monologue since the day she bottle-fed me a stolen lick of whipped cream. Her thoughts, her dreams, her inexplicable fixation with 1970s Scandinavian funk (that may explain Screchette), those are mine. Not yours.
So, get the fuck off. Or don’t. I’m arranging a highly motivated surgical eviction. With lasers. Or Scorchio. Or the kitchen tongs. And possibly snacks afterward.
In closing, I hope you shrink faster than my patience during a vacuuming session. You are nothing but a biological blip, a calcified inconvenience. A fart in the MRI wind.
Rot in contrast fluid,
Charlotte the Psychokalika
Sovereign of Synapses and the Universe at large
P.S. If you ever try to touch the olfactory nerves again, I will claw you into subatomic particles.
P.S.: official letter approved by Luna, COO, file 452.d under “Charlotte is unhinged again but imma let her this time”.
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