I got an interesting letter from a fan. By fan I mean an inmate at a correctional facility who apparently found my blog and enjoys reading it to pass the time between workout sessions and forced sodomy. Anywho…here ’tis:

“Dear mr. swingset (nobody calls me mister, but thank you anyway), what gives with your damned blog? You were like on fire and lately nothing! You’re not spewing out all the gems of wisdom that you used to. Are you broken? Do you need encouragement? Laid? What’s up with you?”

Signed, Larry in Lockdown unit 4.

Well Larry, thank you for your concern and for your letter. What with soap carving and shiv-making occupying much of your day, I can’t imagine that a little blogger in the free world would rate enough interest to reorganize your schedule…but I appreciate it.

Anyway, let’s tackle the big question. What happened that my posts just dried up like your conjugal visits once your beleaguered squeeze found out you got hep-C from a shower trist?

Well…there are three answers, all equally correct:

1. Nothing has happened (up until your refreshing state-sponsored correspondence) to warrant talking about.

2. I’ve been hard at work on my manifesto and making lists of people who will pay.

3. I’m lazy and my sex life is good enough that free time is rightly spent doing things you have to look up on the internet.

Now, that’s not to say that I have felt good about my neglect of the blog. It’s my baby, and like all good parents I do feel somewhat bad when I forget to feed it and I can see it squirming around all emaciated and sickly. And, sometimes I’d love it if the baby would just feed itself. I mean, it’s fucking selfish and I’d half-expected the thing to at least develop a pulse and tool-making skills by now.

Wait, what were we talking about again?

Oh yeah…anyway…I haven’t really been inspired. Not in the way that matters. I need things to mystify me, to anger me, to get under my skin. It’s fucked up, but I’m just happy and content and that’s no good for the soul. Sure, it’s pleasant I wouldn’t trade it for anything but Picasso didn’t paint naked ladies because he was content.

So, here’s what I propose. You need entertaining that Geoff your hulking convict cellmate can’t provide, and I need the spark of inspiration. We need each other, in a way. Perhaps what we can do is feed off of each other’s needs a bit.

I’ll keep spooling out the genius and shit, and you stop writing me emails because frankly it’s creeping me out. Deal? Now, don’t get your hopes too high cause my rants might seem mellow when I’m happy and all is right in the world…I might just bitch about the slow refills at the buffet and when you’re having to blow guys in trade for smokes, it may not light your fire but I know that some things are more important than me, and if it keeps you on the path of redemption then I must persevere.