Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah. You Ruined My Life.

Hello, Muddah. Hello, Faddah. Here I am at my rock bottom.

I’m sorry I threw up inside yah foyah. I’m very drunk, but I can’t put this off any longah.

Camp Grenada has weighed on my mind for nigh-on three decades. To this day I’m still dealing with that fateful summah.

Do you remembah when I wrote that lettah? The one you dismissed as that of a homesick, imaginative boy? Every single word of it was true.

Do you know how malaria looks up close? Or how difficult it is to compete in a three-legged race when yah partnah has dengue fevah?

We played baseball every once in a while, and that was bettah. But the rest of it? A horrah.

Where did you think Jeffrey Hardy and Leonard Skinnard went? At the very least you should have asked for a refund.

Why even send me tah a summer camp in Haiti? We were in Long Island. Surely there was a more convenient place in the Catskills.

Why couldn’t I stay home with my little bruddah? I wouldn’t have made noise or messed the house with the othahs. I even promised I’d let Aunt Bertha hug and kiss me. And for the record, her hugs and kisses were very inappropriate, just another in this long list of traumas. 

You destroyed my life! And I’ll never forgive you for that, you heartless muddahfuckahs. Could I please have forty dollahs?

~Patrick Coyne

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