An open letter to a higher power

Dear Dorris,
I appreciate your taking the time to read this. I understand that the wild strawberries need tended to; yet no one -- no mere thetan, at least -- can provide guidance as you can.
It seems that I've run into myself, so to type. After being shown some of the folly of my youth, I tried to drift away from sensless, pretentious prattling about how my opinions should be gospel. Granted, it's not been an easy row to hoe (and with the price of diesel, not a cheap one, either). But I've tried. And I've seen progress. And I've eaten Progresso. No more are the days when I go on borishly about the glories of Britpop armed with two Radiohead albums, three Blur albums and a useless vault of Beatles and Pink Floyd trivia (may Roger Waters rest in peace).
So what? you are surely asking. So what, indeed.
Leslie, what I'm about to type to you simply must stay between us. You mustn't tell anyone, not even mother, what I'm about to share with you. It could devistate father; it could tarnish our name; it could tarnish the imitation silver bracelet I gave to that tart at Dairy Queen.
It's almost 2 a.m. I will write more after the guards have passed.
As Everest,
Mt. Ed