As I'm getting "better", the Institute allows me supervised letter writing privileges. Some time before my evening feeding, "they" slip a keyboard through the "grub-slot" situated near the bottom of my cell door. I call it a grub-slot, actually it's a back and forth mechanical portal very much like the one to Hannibal Lecter's cell - for those of you who've seen Silence of the Lambs. Although I don't remember it, they tell me I can't have pen and paper because I snapped the top off my ball point, drank the ink, stripped myself naked, shredded the writing paper and stuffed it up my nose, inserted the now drained writing cylinder up another cavity and ran about the cell screaming, "Fu Manchu! Fu Manchu!". I don't know if I really believe that or not, especially the insertion assertions, but I do know that I'm here for a reason. I did "crack-up" and I feel obliged to let you know what I believe to be the cause. Save yourselves before it's too late!
It all began so... innocuously one Sunday afternoon. I was web surfing, and had hit upon some pictures of Eva Herzigova. Eva on the runway almost nekkid, Eva on the beach nekkid, Eva in Cannes in a kinda nekkid bondage suit whipping photographers and onlookers to fever pitch, Eva-click-Eva-Eva-click-click-Eva-Eva-Eva-click, beautiful, long-legged, quintessentially protean Eva-click!!
All of a sudden, instead of looking at simply another picture of Eva, I found myself looking at a picture of Eva on some kind of weird test. Go with the flow I always used to say - when you're hot, you're hot. Eva's source, this time, was a site called Gliaweb. Gliaweb seemed to be, essentially, a playpen for Paul Cooijmans. I was lonely - did I mention that? Anyhow, I figured Cooijmans and I could be friends on the off chance that if he liked Eva enough to feature her in his test, well (you see, I don't meet people in chat rooms, I do it the old fashioned way) maybe he knew something about her and maybe he could tell me some stories'n'stuff. I wanted to know all about Eva. That was all.
I quickly ascertained that if I was to meet Paul, I needed to join his club. But how? This club was for people with 150 IQ or 99.9% smarter than any single individual randomly plucked off the street and then brain-tested. Admittance seemed impossible since I'd never been identified anywhere close to such a level. My second grade teacher, in fact, knew that I was a "moron". She had told me this, and in front of all the other children.
I abandoned the idea of meeting Paul for a while, but as my fascination with Eva grew so did my thirst to talk about her with anybody who might know anything about her! So, I kept coming back to Paul Cooijmans and Gliaweb. It became clear that I would have to use any means possible to become a club member.
Since my standard test scores from school would not qualify me for his club, I would either have to take his tests or accept that I would never get to communicate with the only person I knew in the whole world who might know some things about Eva - and might, additionally, be willing to tell me some of those things.
I must stop. I will write again soon. "They" are coming back now for the keyboard.