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dear wilbur,
actually, no, ‘cause why do letters always start with dear? i am a Big Man and i do not need to adhere to social convention. let’s start over now because i said so.
bitchboy wilbur,
everything here is boring. it is november the first and the snow hasn’t come yet but it’s really fucking cold so me and tubbo are huddling for warmth but there’s no pretty vista to look at. it’s sort of sad- would be sadder if you were here, probably, you get all mopey in the cold, meh meh meh. sorry, i get it. november feels rotten in my mouth, stuck behind my teeth and tasting like leaf rot. november is a dying month. is that why you picked it?
it’s probably hot as balls in utah, so i don’t pity you. have fun sweating your skin off, loser (KEKW). does your gas station sell slurpees? i’ve never had a slurpee because my dumbfuck brain gets frozen too easily, but when you come back you should bring me one anyway because you love me dearly.
wilbur (bitchboy),
remember when you told me about the thing you do? first of the month, before you meet anyone, before you say anything, you told me, say white rabbit, white rabbit into the empty air. for good luck. i said i am already phenomenally lucky especially with women and you told me no woman would touch me with a five-foot stick. i still think that was copium of you.
it is november the first and i didn’t remember to say it, met up with tubbo at 1000 hours and i’d just woken up so i just said hey. guess i’ve got no luck for the month, then. (widepeepoSad).
dickhead wilbur,
why is that the phrase? why is the rabbit white? is it lucky to be pure like the sheets of snow that haven’t come? i’ve been scrubbing stains from my own clothes and yours since i can remember but i haven’t been bothering lately, been letting the grass smear across my skin and my fingers and my shorts and my shirt. i keep finding wildflower pollen behind my ears- well, i did over the summer, but it’s fall now and the flowers don’t have any more gold to give me so i’ll settle for the dirty snow when it comes.
i remember when you taught me about the water cycle, and how the water’s never really fucking clean because it’s just the old water recycled. i think if we pass it through filters and lie through our teeth we can say that it’s good as new but everyone knows that’s not the full truth. well everyone that is as intelligent and philosophical as me anyways.
wilbur,
how is utah? is it better? do they like you and your stupid hair and your thrice-broken glasses? in all the time i’ve known you, i’ve tried to remember to call the white rabbit every month. sometimes i do, sometimes i don’t. i don’t know if you even say it, because you’re an inconstant prick like that, but i try. maybe there’s too much dirt under my fingernails and too many smudges on the paper for you to believe me.
loser wilbur,
why do you get away with it? why do you get the luck and the fresh start and i’m stuck here chanting for some dumb fucking rabbit? november is here and it’s sitting heavy on my ribs, something about them getting pierced twice made them funny and rattly with the chilly wind. once with an arrow, once with an axe, both times for you, all three times by the man that makes my teeth chatter, but not from the cold. i am a Big Man and i fear nothing but he fucking freaks me out, especially since, well you know. the memory of my exile feels like brainfreeze, bitter-sweet like a shitty slushie. do you remember any of it now that i’ve told you?
wilbur,
tubbo’s house is not well heated. i tell him to use his many riches to fix it and he goes meh meh meh, no tommy, foolish is on vacation. i tell him to do it himself and he goes meh meh meh i don’t trust myself to do it right. i wanted to tell him that you always trust him to do it right but i think that would upset him. he’s tetchy like that, you know.
michael is very quiet, it’s sort of unnerving. did you meet michael? he comes up to my hip now, where the buckshot scar is, you know the one. he looks up at me sometimes with his little black eyes and he stretches his hands up to me. i pick him up and swing him around and he laughs, which is also quiet, and sort of grunty. we look out the window at the breeze blowing the little scrubby bushes and have conversations where i ask him if his favorite soup is rabbit too and if he would’ve liked l’manberg and if his dad is lame for only wanting to go outside like once a week and he agrees with every single thing i say because i am simply so awesome. i’m like an uncle to him, you know, a big manly role model, and you’re an uncle too, if you ever come visit.
tubbo is also quiet, but that’s just because he’s been tinkering. on the days we hang out inside at his house, he builds and builds and builds, a solar powered well that he was gonna install in his backyard at first, but now the days are getting shorter so he’s making a flamethrower instead. he says we can use it to burn down some old shit that no one uses anymore if i want and i tell him to build a fucking heater instead because his fingers are going to fall off and that will simply be not pog. my fingers will not fall off because i am too great and i also kinda love the flamethrower. mostly i’m just glad he is happy and working. are you? happy i mean, i know you’re working.
wilbur,
ghostboo is unnerving too when he shows up, loudest of the three of them but with no footsteps so he scares the shit out of me sometimes because he’s an asshole, just like you. remember when you spent a day hiding from me in the cave systems and then you leapt out and growled like a rabid wolf? and then you started coughing because your lungs are as weak and gross as the rest of you. i don’t know how you ever managed to procreate with all that grossness. maybe it was me being the beacon of sexiness that i am and you just happened to get in the way.
tubbo and michael and i are staying in my house now because i missed shroud. we still huddle for warmth but with a lot less options of places to huddle. michael likes the dirt walls and digs at them with his little hooves and snout until his whole face is brown and tubbo has to scrub it all off all gentle-like so his skin doesn’t detach from his skull. i asked tubbo if it’s freaky raising a zombie and he said it’s no freakier than being brothers with one, which is sort of justified but also sort of mean. i think he meant it like death is all around us and we can choose to love little parts of it but we have to choose right, but who knows with him. tubbo works in mysterious ways. i used to get him but i think some things have slipped away through the cracks.
wilbur,
the snow is coming now, thick and fast, but it can’t quite decide if it’s snow or rain so it’s all just slush. this morning i stepped outside and slipped on a frozen patch and slid all the way down the hill, laugh-yelling, voice absolutely never cracking. tubbo and michael grabbed some of my old wood and made a little sled, and we’re trying to see who can dash it to pieces on the rocks first now. the snow keeps flicking up into my eyes and it’s a little like i’m crying or like my face is getting sprayed with seawater at christmastime and the beach is dark except for the candle in the cake. my vision’s blurry but i’m laughing, because even with the ocean in my head i hear that tubbo is laughing too. i hope that you have good sledding hills in utah. if you don’t, my front yard is always open, because i am the most generous person on earth.
the snow is dirty, but i’m having fun. i think you would too. it is december first and i don’t remember if i said the words this morning, but i’m gonna say ‘em now because i think that counts. white rabbit, white fucking rabbit. with my luck, you’ll probably show up for christmas and be all sad again, and complain about the dirty snow. with my luck, you’ll make me drink a slurpee.
wilbur,
tubbo’s been complaining about his bones and shit, so i gave him my heating pad because i am just incredible. he was going to have tea but then he passed out because he is an insomnia ridden loser. i don’t remember what kind the tea i have is because you gave it to me as a gift when the war was over, which was fucking forever ago so the label’s all peeled off. tubbo is acting okayish, but his eyes are all sad and i dunno what to do because he doesn’t want to go outside and sled or shovel or mine. ghostboo is outside my door making blobby tall snow angels, but i don’t want to invite him in because he always makes tubbo go even quieter, like he steals all his breath like a demon or some shit, so i’m going to go out and sit in the snow with him in a little bit.
winter is here and it’s as boring as fall, and all i wish, all i’m gonna pour my december white rabbit luck into, is that you come and visit soon. we need another body for huddling, even if your body is all poky and rotten, and michael needs an uncle, even if you’re a wrongun and a prick and a liar, and i need someone to come out in the dirty snow with me even if you complain, because you don’t mean it. you never really did.
puffy said that we need to work on forgiveness, so here’s my olive branch or whatever the fuck. it’s okay that you scared me, because i am a big man and i am not scared of you anymore. i don’t know what you need me to say but i hope it’s that. the snow outside is dirty but michael’s pressed to the window, little huffy breaths fogging up the glass. tubbo’s gotten up from the couch, patting michael’s head and asking me where my oatmeal is. it’s 1600 hours which is nowhere near a respectable mealtime and i know you wouldn’t approve of eating now, but i’m not gonna tell him that because i want oatmeal too, and you’re not here to tell me off for it or to steal enough spoonfuls for me to just make you your own bowl out of the goodness of my heart. it’s just fair innit.
dear bitchboy wilbur,
write me back soon, yeah? i’m going to save a fucking plate for you, whether you like it or not.