It’s official: I’m lost. But Theresa’s probably called the authorities by now so as long as I don’t panic, I should be fine. Plus, I’ve got plenty of training should it come down to that. Then again, what are the odds I would need to use my three years of interpretive dance training out here?
The search helicopters are passing by less and less frequently. I was optimistic before, but now I fear I may never be found. Looking back, I probably should have cut my nap short and come running when I heard those dogs barking and those men calling my name.
Gray clouds rumble ominously in the distance. The thought of wet clothes has spurred me to ditch my pile of jagged rocks, as comfortable as it is, and attempt to build myself a proper fort. Luckily, my father and I built many a fort in my youth, so I am confident in my abilities. Provided I find some couch cushions and a set of Looney Toons bedsheets, I should be looking up at my roof by nightfall.
The last of the Toblerones is gone. I used my shoelace and a paperclip to fashion a makeshift fishing pole. After hours at the stream, I finally succeed in snaring my quarry. And what a beauty it was – at least a foot in length! Too bad it was a trout. I don’t much care for trout – to fishy for my taste. I threw it back and prayed for marlin.
Oh my dear Theresa, how I wish you were here. I could really use your gorgeous face and encouraging smile right about now. And, lo, as I lie here how I wish your soft, supple breasts were laid out before me. I am a man with needs, after all. And right now this man needs a couple pillows that offers more neck support than this sorry pile of leaves.
Still no marlin. I did, however, come across a dead crow today. My body’s craving for meat was enough to override the putrid smell, so I skewered it and roasted it over an open flame. Surprisingly, the taste was not exotic at all, and I bet you can guess what kind of run-of-the-mill bird it tasted like. Yep. Crow. Rancid, maggot-infested crow.
The days are getting cold and the nights colder. When I set out for town all those days ago, I really should have taken the extra time to throw on a pair of pants. These Fruit of the Looms simply aren’t cutting it.
This will be my last entry. I’m growing weaker by the hour and even now I can barely hold the pen. Peter, my friend, if this note finds you I implore you to please look after Theresa for me. Feed her well, take her for long walks on the beach and brush her hair after you’re done rolling around with her in outside. I know Border Collie’s aren’t exactly your favorite, but you’ll grow to love her…I did.