There is no such thing as peanut butter. I’ve searched the whole pantry. It’s a myth. I think they have implanted a chip into my brain that makes me long for a substance I cannot obtain. I am awaiting a knock on the door, some special agent who will try to convince me that he has heard of this substance, and has a secret stash of it, if I will only comply and be his stooge. I promise you, my friends, I will do no such thing without your approval. My hips hurt. I think it is radiation. Even though I live in the country, they can bombard you because of satellite technology. You see, things are changing rapidly, and no one is safe. I know it sounds bizarre, but there is a secret code running through all the printed communications coming from both the New York Times and the Washington Post. I spend a good part of my day trying to decipher it. I use a binary launch mechanism that I think I invented. (I know most new technology isn’t really new, just built on previous discoveries, and that all new inventions are realized simultaneously around the world in different cultures).

Some primitive guy somewhere in the rain forest is probably feeling the same ache in his hip, and etching notches on a tree branch to record it and see if there is a pattern. Of course, he can’t read the newspapers, so he probably won’t figure it out as quickly as I. But you never know. Maybe, because of how he lives in a much simpler world, he will. And he will pick some flowers or maybe a leaf that has reflective properties and will ward off the incoming rays. I should go looking for a simpler environment and maybe I’ll run into people like him. The trouble is that my hips hurt badly enough that I can hardly get out of bed and walk around. I make it to the bathroom and to the kitchen a couple times every day, but mostly I am trapped here by my computer. I wish my mother was still alive. She would know what to do.

Do you read this column? Maybe you could help. Christina and I never had a question and answer mechanism worked out, but maybe you could email either one of us with a suggestion. I would certainly be grateful. And if you are feeling especially philanthropic and would like to bring me a meal, please don’t bring chicken. Everyone brings chicken, and it gets tiring.

– Larry Berger. HashtagWV #115. July 2019