Dear Senate,

Based on the lunar phases, it is goddamn Day 236. You have still not voted on my fucking nomination, and I have been waiting on these god forsaken stairs outside of Congress—no food, no water, no gavel—since March.

My shit kids used to visit me twice a day. Now, I’m lucky if those bastards shoot me a message over AIM. My wife already remarried to some poor shmuck named Juan-Carlos. I only find company in this homeless man Craig that wanders over during frigid nights. I am always the small spoon.

It has been an ETERNITY, and I’d appreciate if I could GET THE FUCK OFF THESE STAIRS. The wound of the Day 136 Rottweiler attack forced me to amputate my foot. The only consolation was that then I had something to eat on Day 137. Just yesterday, that Kentucky turtle man, Mitch McConnell, stepped square on my chest while I slept.

Please vote on me, so I can go the hell home. In the last 236 days, I have been able to scribe an entire Torah, savor every episode of Law and Order, make it to the front of eight DMV lines, and fill the Grand Canyon with my salty, salty tears—dripped cathartically down my face with Sarah McLachlan playing in the background.

Wait…what? Juan-Carlos just AIMed me that Hillary fucking lost! I’ve been waiting here to do jack-shit? I’m goin’ home.

Yours never, 

Justice Merrick Garland