Gemotions

He’d been expecting a bill, or worse, a rejection letter from that art school he’d applied to. Instead, nestled amongst the usual junk mail, was an envelope with his father's old stationary. He knew the paper; it had a slightly rough texture that always reminded him of old money. His gut told him it wasn't good news. He tore it open with a flourish, his heart doing a weird little skip-hop.

It was a draft resignation letter, typed with a faded ribbon and riddled with cross-outs. His father's signature, a bold, confident flourish, was missing. He read the stilted language, the apologetic tone. Then, a wicked thought struck him. He found a pen, and meticulously added a series of increasingly ridiculous "P.S." notes to the bottom of the letter, each one more absurd than the last.

"P.S. I am now taking up competitive cheese rolling." He giggled to himself, adding, "P.P.S. Please forward all mail to my new address: The moon." He wondered if his dad's old boss would get a kick out of it. He sure was.