With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Brian Buckbee divides his time between Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and Missoula, Montana. His short story in this issue is from a book he is completing titled Dear Dipshit: Letters to My Dumb, Future Self. His work has appeared in Threepenny Review, Mid-American Review, and Shenandoah.
If you are reading this letter, then I have some bad news for you. You’ve always been a straight shooter, so here it is: You have Alzheimer’s.
My medication, I believe, is optional. They say you are supposed to take it regularly, but of course they say that: it means more dough for them. Why don’t I take my medicine? Because I don’t want to walk through life like a zombie. I love Rex, but I don’t want to act like him, wandering from room to room without knowing why. Paul and Bonnie would love for me to take my medicine. I’m easier to control when I take it, they say, and I’m more fun.