Dear Id,

I know after last night’s fight you may be hurting, perhaps angry at my accusations that you’ve mellowed and become middle-aged. I’m sorry for my tone, but, you see, you’ve changed. Blame the post-college blues, or, as you said, the classical development of my super-ego. Either way, each explanation still feels like an excuse.

Now don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the recent glass of Hungarian Merlot and the days-old whole milk with my cereal. But kasha? I don’t even know how to pronounce wholegrain buckwheat. I remember that week in Vegas with the Reese’s Puffs and shots of cheap whiskey. In those days, we didn’t even think of the consequences, never giving a second thought to the stomach pains and sugar crashes.

I admit I’ve been lenient. You were in a slump, scraping the barrel with your Italo Calvino novels, and letting the TiVo choose History Detectives and Wallander. I know it’s partly my fault. I made it easy for your relapses into hot yoga and vigorous afternoon walks. But I need you, Id, and you’ve been aloof. Something tells me it’s a passive-aggressive act, like your current attraction to Wittgenstein’s Tractacus, and yesterday’s re-organization of my childhood memories.

Years ago, you threw yourself into your work. Your maniac energy swamped my thoughts. The vigor you had, the excesses of the Pleasure Principle you sought, debauched me on every single level. State College U. had never seen such parties.

Thinking of the times we shared makes me sad, Id.

Your partners-in-crime, ego and super-ego, are no better, but at least they still refuse to pay their part of the rent. I want things to revert to how they were: buttered popcorn and hookers, a season of Glee on demand. We need to forge forward, work on that Death Drive, if we are to go anywhere in this life.


Christopher Linforth



Photo Source: Highlight Health