HELLO FROM THE BUNKER Dear Ma, If you get this postcard, it means I’m dead.
Just jokes. I’m still alive in the bunker. I know you said I can come out, that the virus is contained, but what if you’re, like, a literate zombie and you just want to eat my sweet, sweet brain? Trust no one. That’s what my boss said in his last email. Is Jerry dead yet? That would save an awkward conversation about why I haven’t logged into my work email in a while. I know you thought the bunker was extreme when I started digging it in your backyard (again, I’ll fix your hollyhocks once this is over), and I know you were mad when I wouldn’t let you in. But ma, you gotta understand I was just protecting the family genes. And you use a lot of toilet paper. Anyway, if you could put a couple hash brown casseroles and a jug of chocolate milk outside the door, that would be much appreciated. Thanks for moving the WiFi router closer to the bunker. I nearly died from boredom that first week. I refuse to surf the internet because of all the fake news, but I’ve blown through every show on Netflix (yes, even Fuller House). Prime has some good shows. Could you get a subscription? I also tore some holes in my Batman cape and there’s one on Amazon with free one-day shipping. Just knock when the package arrives. You’re the best. Jasper P.S. I need floss.
By:
Suzanne Johnston
HO N OU M EN RA TI BL ON E