Letters From Atlanta - By Andrew C Zinn - End Of Chapter 1
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EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I write these letters to my mother every so often she likes to hear from me. I have always written to her when I have had success with my writing. Things like publications in literary journals awards the money I have made things that moms like to hear about from their sons. She has never really approved of my lifestyle. However, I think that she is secretly proud of my achievements. Mom is just glad that I'm doing something constructive with myself and not out robbing people. She knows that I do something that makes me happy or at least used to. I hate the burden her with this very matter of fact suicide note, but it doesn't really make a difference. The truth of the matter is that my mother has been dead for about five years. Her passing came at the peak of my writing career. I took it pretty hard and my drinking and drugging got out of control. I let my career slip away. I can't explain to myself why, after five years they continue to write to her. I can only suppose that this is some kind of sad affirmation to me alone. It ensures that I will complete what I have told Mom and I'm going to do. I always hated to disappoint her. This probably makes no sense. They have to admit, all in all, it gives me comfort and keeps me sane. The letters always return to my address in Atlanta. Return to sender. I read them when they come back and sometimes giggle at what I had written that can be so, well, melancholy. Sometimes I think I'll write to her one more time. When I get to London. The last letter to my mother will be a good one. I wish I could read it when it comes back. Return to sender, but I regret that I will have no address when that letter returns. It will be over by plane arrived in London at about 2 p.m. Atlanta time. My back was killing me and I was starving. I can never eat that ****** airplane food, and the pretzels are hardly as astute for real nourishment. It shows public transit because it was the cheapest way to get around the city. Hilda Cab boarded my single bag onto the trunk. It was on my way to see this London. As we drove to the hotel, I observed the weather. It was strange that this was a glorious, sunny day. He always depict England and movies and television as being a cloudy and rainy place. I suppose that it isn't so hard to believe that portrayals of England could be inaccurate, especially when those make movies. Intelligence shows don't take the time to do their research. Anyway, I asked the driver to take me to the worst bar in London. I just figured that a drive bar would be the best place to start and a good place to purchase my last dose. I just couldn't get over how sunny it was that day.