It's Not My Real Father

I'd like to meet Susan LeFevre and ask her what her opinion is.

I wouldn't specify a topic - I'd ask just that. "Hello, Susan. My name is Joel, one of thousands of people who impersonally know you. What's your opinion?"

Still waiting on that pardon from our Governor, if in fact she really is that. I begin to suspect that we are not governed by Jennifer Granholm, but rather a poorly-designed robot incapable of taking action outside its narrow and limited programming. It's definitely trying to do a good job - but it's a robot.

As I've said earlier, I pray we never have to depend on Susan LeFevre's faith in humanity. And I'd really like to meet her, to apologize for something (I don't know exactly what), and ask her opinion.

What does Susan LeFevre think of the energy crisis? Who does she favor in the presidential election? Does she prefer PCs, or Macs? Does she think I look like Bill Murray?

I think the only reason she's still in jail, really, is because she has a French last name. The French are right there in third place, behind Arabs and non-Arab Muslims, just above Indians-who-are-commonly-mistaken-for-Arabs, on the list of prejudged people in America.

This morning, I went for a run around the block. Upon my return, I had pastries, green tea and ice-water. At my own pace, I took my breakfast with me to the computer. I now sit in front of it, idly thinking of what to type next as I stare out the window. At this time of morning, the sun reaches gently through it, making solar glare the most significant difficulty I currently face.

From this point, it would be ignorant and naive to say that I have an abusive father. I'm rather one of my father's favorite sons, for whom scorn is unknown, and gifts abundant. At Christmas time, Daddy doesn't want me to look in the corner at my sister, clad in rags and idly staring through black eyes at her happy meal toy. He shows me shiny new iMacs and video games, and then despairs as I can't take college seriously.