Emailing Coleen Again

Colleen, I ask you to sympathize, first. I don't know how to communicate without paraphrasing. And playing with myself now that at last I have all my clothes off.

Before I go on with the wooing(which they say, at one point in Am His preceded the screwing) let me ask you flat out: What atrocities have you already been subjected to since you first got coined in the social labyrinth of the late eighties? (give or take a decade)..some examples, beneath.

...Constant sharer of proximities, links, tacky sunsets, tacky beaches, tackier still images of groping couples(no less than 1600x1200). Whatever works. Don't ask me to repeat that.

...A stream of innermost thoughts, ideas, feelings that you could not give a flock about. It's like being bombarded by Heather's Inline Datrix. And you are ready for a "more secure" email than the one you just let the dude have.

...A daily phone call to ask you to come over and "water the flowers"..jeez. I remember when a guy could just ask..but that's been ruined forever by "Sherry Baby".

Indiscreet personal questions like "how many pickles did you get on your Bing Burger" when you supposedly were with Angelica that night(when they know you were at the bar at Samurai Highball talking to John or another dope).

Do guys in your past ask you if you shed your panties for any two-faced Protestant, or will you give your all in front of the widescreen? What were they doing the night you filled your whole goddam pantry with spam and went for high-speed internet? Whose credit card did you fish out of her leather jacket? She knows what you do. She's you mom.

Do you think that Thursday will go as planned? Like the first night we met for deviltry on a Thursday two weeks ago from the forthcoming? Am I wrong to make evaluations like that? There's no fucking idea where you will be. I know you. When do you think I was born, anyway. The date of Custer's Last Stand? It was June 25. You should...I'm not gonna say it. I get accused of so many things. You should find a nice guy like George if you'll just notice there are 49 other places to look for guys. That's U.S., if you don't count Mexico and Canada and a few other places like B.C. and other free and independent territories. What do you want a guy for anyway? I can screw up an egg.

Let me say this to you. I don't want someone to keep me company while I watch The Godfather again. On Saturday night. Carlo? You like him? Oh yeah, well. World is full of surprises. Nice work on that windshield. I thought.

We've been doing this now for a couple of months, and I have met you once, once. At the mall in front of the Japanese restaurant. And I forgot my wallet and could not remember how to tell the maitre 'd my full card number. And I didn't have my driver's license to prove who I might be. You looked so scrumptious. Hell, I thought we were going back to my place for semi-thawed shrimp from Cape Cod(six hundred miles from "local"). Have a couple beers, watch Animal House again, listen to Jim Croce(just forget it, Jim. You're out of dimes).

This is a respectable establishment. I write letters, sure. I'm a long gone dog who still lives in the desktop days. And begs for meat snacks. I know what happens to the emails I shoot off. They usually evaporate into the ether fog of the virtual space. So far I've gotten from you a tiny url to where I can either go f$ck myself, or imagine that I'll do that to you. If you want my card, here. It's from Walmart and can use it at Mr. Deli. It's worth ten dollars. Don't you want to put on a red dress, and bring along a Doberman and a few friends and meet me at the park over near the Civil War museum and the lake? About seven. And let's talk in person, although that might aggravate you. I still have your pic on my hard drive. It's kind of, you know, low resolution. You look like a sleazy spirit at a seance, revealed in the Daily Mail in shadowy Collinwood, with her face and hair all a fog. The participants are going "Shazzbah, Nanu, nanu!"

Those were the days, gone forever, at least as long as I go tossing my groceries into the Never never land of these ridiculous portals. There are so many classic series collections I cannot afford. But I can forget I met you(no 699 channels) and you'll be on your laptop at a burger place, reading this, and wondering about the suffrage of romaine lettuce, the dignity of herbivores, if lowfat dressing has less niacin than french fries.