Hey Spacejerk

Say Something

Hey Spacejerk,

So, apparently trying to get the tracker off results in the SWAT team raining down on your house and another "grounding." Two weeks in solitary—that is to say, in my room. Joke's on Dad, I'm just about always in solitary and have been most of my life. You're about the only person who ever took me seriously. How sad is that?

I guess it's a little different. At least when I was a kid people talked to me about how much they hated me or were creeped out. Now there's just, nothing. Me and the ghost. I think she's sympathetic, but I'm still not totally sure what's going on because I sat down with pen and paper to write what she was saying, and by the time I was done the paper I was writing on vanished.

I'm not going to lie. I can't tell if the ghost caused that to happen or if... if I never was really writing down what she said in the first place and just thought I was.

I don't want to think about that, though. If I just thought I was writing down what she said, maybe I've just made up the ghost in my wall. If I've made her up, maybe I made you up.

Maybe that's why you're not writing back. Maybe you're not even real.

What if there aren't any ghosts or aliens? All my proof went up in smoke, how am I supposed to remind myself?

No, you sent me a bomb in the mail. That proves you're real and still out there.

Unless... I really did... and labeled it with your name..

Please write back. I need you to write back, Zim. Something. Anything.

-Dib