Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Well played, Pink. (Technically, you’re breaking the rules since I can tell by your name that you’re a girl.) Another question coming your way, and this time, try not to get around it like a pussy. When is it okay, if ever, to disobey the law?
—Black
I actually giggled, for the first time since I’d gotten to Todos Santos. I licked my lips and thought about the question all afternoon before I wrote back a response.
Well, Black, (and I fail to see how Pink is any different from Black. Clearly, you’re breaking the rules too, because I can tell by your name that you’re a guy), I’ll give you a straight, surprising answer: I think it’s okay to disobey the law at times. When it’s a necessity, an emergency, or when common sense overrules the law.
Like civil disobedience. When Gandhi went down to the sea for salt, or when Rosa Parks took a seat on that bus. I don’t think we’re above the law. But I don’t think we’re below it either. I think we need to be level with it and think before we do things.
P.S.
Calling me a “pussy” is breaking the no-foul-language rule, so technically, you’re practically an anarchist in the realm of this pen-pal world.
—Pink.
The answer came the same day, and it was an all-time record. Nobody was overeager to write more often than they had to, but I liked Black. I also liked the anonymity of the project, because I was starting to believe that Black, like everyone else, was treating me like crap daily just because I was the daughter of servants. I could use a friend.
I’m semi-impressed. Maybe we should break more rules by you coming to my house tonight. My mouth is not only good for talking philosophy.
—Black
I flushed red and crumpled his letter, throwing it into the trashcan next to my bed in my room at home. Here, I thought I was talking to someone who was actually funny and smart, and all he wanted was to get into my pants. I didn’t answer Black, and when I absolutely had to send my weekly letter, I responded with:
No.
—Pink
Black, too, waited until the very last day before he answered me next time.
Your loss.
—Black
The next week, I decided to stop playing games and write something lengthy. It was a bad week. The week when my calculus-book incident happened. Vicious took over my thoughts, so I tried to quiet him down by thinking of other things.
Do you think we’ll ever crack the riddle of aging? Have you ever wondered if maybe we were born too soon? Maybe one hundred, two hundred years from now they’re going to find a cure for death. Then everyone who lives will look back at us and think, “Well, they were screwed. We’re going to live forever!” Muahahaha.
I think I might be a pessimist.
—Pink
He answered the next morning.
I think it’s more likely that these people will have to deal with the wrecked, polluted world we left them because we did fuck-all and partied hard when they weren’t even a sperm and an egg yet. But to your question, no, I wouldn’t want to live forever. What would be the point in that? Aren’t you hungry for something? Don’t you have dreams? What weight and significance do your dreams have if they don’t have a deadline? If you don’t have to chase them today because you can do it tomorrow, in a week, a year, or in a hundred years’ time?
I think you’re just realistic, and possibly weird as shit.
—Black
I didn’t write him the next day because I was getting ready for another important exam, though I was planning to write him that evening. But it was too late. Black wrote another letter.
I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Your weirdness isn’t a turn-off.
—Black.
I bet that’s just a pickup line to try to ask me to come to your place again.
—Pink
I sighed, hoping this wouldn’t mean another dry-spell from letters. But Black wrote me after two days.
You only get one chance, sweetheart. I’m not going to ask again. You missed the train. Besides, I have a nagging feeling that I know who you are, and if that’s the case, I don’t want you anywhere near my bed, or inside my house.
Can wars ever be just?
—Black
My heart pounded fiercely in my chest for the whole day. I looked around in the hallways, trying to catch someone who might’ve looked at me funny, but no one did. Everybody acted the same way. Meaning they either ignored me or sneered at me. Other than Dean. Dean was hitting on me constantly. I wanted so badly to tell him no, wanted to explain that it was a bad idea, that I had feelings for his friend, but even I knew how pathetic that sounded. Falling in lust with your bully. Craving someone who found you disgusting.