A Pictorial Letter to a Snake

Dear Snake-Lady,

We've known each other a while now. We've had some good times bad times and some bad times along the way and I feel the time is come for me to tell you how I feel.

Snake-Lady, I confess. The first time you came into my office, I was moved. My stomach flittered and I could feel the bile rising into my throat. I'm not sure if it was your horrifyingly small mouth that reminds me of an anus:

Or your creepy triangle of hair that spews forth in all directions at jagged 30 degree angles:

Or those Thick-As-A-Mexican-Coke-Bottle Math-Teacher glasses:

with those crazy googly eyes of yours coyly peeking out from behind:

Or perhaps it was the sheer bat-shit insanity radiating off of you. But whatever it was, I could barely contain my excitement vomit. I knew from then on my life would never be the same. And I was right. 

You're always with me now. You call me just to chat about your landlord's conspiracy with a university to bring you down. You show up unannounced to tell me about your neighbors having sex with their cousin. You curse incoherently for hours on in, and all I can do is nod and smile. It's touching. It touches me right in my feels (the negative ones and the ones associated with regurgitation, to be specific).

But I knew things were special the day you barged in to bare your soul shirtless torso to me, 

and confess to me your deepest secret - that it was the year of the snake, and you were in fact a snake,

so I had best watch my back or perhaps put a gun to my head. Oh, I knew things were special for sure then. Real special. More special than I could ever ask for. 

I tried to run. But you, you sneaky snake, you wouldn't take no for an answer. Day in and day out you begged the receptionist, the accountant, the other lawyers, the copy machine to make me take you back telling them that I had asked God to send you to me. Until finally one day someone said yes (it wasn't me, just so we're clear).

And so here we are, Snake-Lady. Together again. You coiled up in the parking lot waiting to ambush me as I walk to my car and me slaving away trying to make sense of your incoherent case file. 

It's beautiful, my dearest Snake-Lady. The truth is, it's so beautiful, that working on your files, or listening to you tell me about the bird that hacks into your Facebook, or seeing your crazy eyes, anus-mouth, and triangle hair makes me want to hang myself...

... with piano wire...

...whilst Billy Joel's Piano Man plays on infinite loop in the background.

And maybe I could overlook everything up until this point - all the times you've ambushed me at my car, all the times you've cursed at me and spittle flew at my face, all the times you've told me about being a reptile, all the times you've stripped in my office, but enough is enough, Snake-Lady. Piano Man is a terrible song. And you've made me daydream about it. Do you know what that does to a person?! Probably not. You're nuts. And so it is from the bottom of my hear that I say this to you, my dearest Snake-Lady, I hope Billy Joel makes you into a pair of snakeskin pants, that he wears every time he plays Piano Man. 

Not Billy Joel

Forever and ever. For all eternity.

Yours truly,

R aka the Mongoose.