Hello mudder, hello fadder—
I was going to write this whole letter in rhyming cadence to the tune of Dance of the Hours, but I don’t have time—the pace here at camp is pretty frantic. There are only a few different activities, but the counselors are constantly switching among them. When something’s not working, they suddenly switch to something else. That’s actually also what they do when something is working, which is a strategy I don’t quite understand, but they tell me to “just go with it. It’s improv.”
Camp isn’t quite what I expected. I guess I thought it was going to be more…I don’t know, Minnesotan? We’re definitely in Minnesota (I think), but the camp itself is pretty much like any other stereotypical summer camp. One of the counselors is a jock, one is a slut, one is a stoner, one is experiencing his sexual awakening—by which I mean that at just about every activity, there’s a joke about putting something (or a lot of things) up his butt.
In an oddly self-deprecating pep talk, Alex and Hannah—they’re the camp directors—told us this whole camp didn’t quite come together the way they expected, and encouraged us to set our expectations low. I did, and I’m still bored. Maybe I’m just a bad camper, though, because some of the other kids are laughing really loudly. Like really, really loudly. Actually, maybe they’re not actually campers, they’re hyenas who are coming to eat me. If they do, it will be all your fault!
To answer your question: no, I haven’t been swimming or hiking or making macramé, but we imagine doing at least two of those things. I couldn’t tell whether you were kidding about that or not, since you knew damn well you were sending me to a one-hour, ten-dollar camp in the back of a bowling alley. The whole campground is just 9×22′, and there are only two chairs for everyone to share. There are like a dozen counselors and they’re all constantly crowded onto the campground together, and sometimes they make out in a giant pile. It smells like beer. I want to go home.
Love Up yours,