Dear Doctor Kevorkian,

I know you just died but I need your help. My name is Renaud Grotzky and this is my story, briefly:

“You’re a fuckin’ sissy!”

My boss shouted at me. I don’t know why he always calls me that and it’s really not that professional. I suppose it’s because I complain. I complain a lot. But you would too if you were me; my job sucks! I work at Mount Rainier in Seattle, Washington. There is snow here all year round, and for that reason the fun never stops. I carry sleds to the top of a large hill called “Leffe Hill” all day. After little children slide, screaming down the entire way, they leave their vessels of excitement at the bottom and I round them up. They get to walk up the stairs that sprout up along the side of the hill, but I have to walk the sleds up the middle. I slip and I slide and my face is always bruised. I wear shoes with inch-long spikes in an attempt to prevent the slipping, but it never works. I inevitably fall and I fall really hard. And nobody is ever concerned about my wellbeing! It’s not fair! And I can’t quit this shitty job because I’m working off a debt I owe to the owner of Mount Rainier—it’s a long story and I really don’t want to bore you with the details. I had the worst time today and I’m completely fed up. I carted more sleds to the top today than ever before; it’s peak season right now because everyone’s on vacation and the day seemed endless. I’m dead tired right now but I thought I’d write because I don’t know what to do. The fun never stops and for that reason I must continue to suffer! Please write back. Or at least have someone from your estate write me back.

Eternally Yours (I wish),

Renaud