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LETTER FROM A BRIDGE 


Dear uncaring misfits:

Peering out at the alligator-infested cesspool of murky darkness below only serves as affirmation that it's time to end it all before another reincarnation of the iPhone that I can't afford.

The prospect of a shiny penny and an orange in the bottom of a tattered Christmas stocking only strengthens my resolve to jump. Because, you see, my friends will be pouring champagne on Christmas as they open bright-red gift boxes packed with piles of tissue paper and expensive trinkets, while my own dream of packing my middle-class home with costly material goods remains unfulfilled. So I leave you to ponder the items that drove me to this bitter crossroads.

  • A fully loaded Mac Pro computer should give you a lift to work or wipe your ass. It does neither. By adding a few options to the $2,799 base model — niceties like a big ol' 30-inch screen for $1,800 — you can easily double or triple the base price. Apparently the graphics are so good it's like you're on a porn set, or vacationing in Tahiti, or whatever rich people do these days.
  • Particularly disgusting is the thought of spending another night sleeping on my rock-hard bed while some dandy slumbers on a $60,000 handmade Swedish mattress. The Vividus mattress (www.hastens.com), stuffed with mystery "natural materials" and entirely hand-stitched, is so ridiculous that I'm tempted to totter over the edge right now. But that would only leave you wondering about the rest of this final letter.
  • Moving right along (because jumping seems more exciting than finishing this letter), there are those plasma televisions that you hang on your ceiling just because you can. Panasonic makes a nice 65-inch model that costs $7,000 (www.panasonic.com). Nope, can't afford it. But I'm quite familiar with the typical Central Florida cable TV plan and feel some satisfaction knowing the manner of crap that will be filling that giant, crystalline screen, so there's some comfort in that.

Well, that's it for me. Cuddle up with Satan's belongings and sleep well on your master-crafted bed of orgasms.

 

dmorey@orlandoweekly.com

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