Fun with Email

I was thinking of doing a series of blog entries on my love life. I mean my social love life. You know, eros (emphasis on the “err” not on the “o”). Not agape or philos.

I had thought about doing it a few months ago when I was getting all sorts of weird email from Preston, my gay boyfriend. Pictures of the cat’s funeral and all that. It was just too much, and I felt torn between the need to share the disturbia and my overwhelming compulsion to be nice. Nice won out. But that was in April.

This month I’ve been feeling a little cranky and I thought I’d share some of the nuttier social experiences I’ve had. One thing about writers that you may not know: we are sneaky. That is to say that for the writer, everything and everyone is fair game. For instance, I forward asinine emails. I also keep unusual voice mail, especially if there is any kind of singing or humming involved. That note you passed me in 10th grade algebra? It’s in the back of my sock drawer, right next to a birthday card from my Auntie Gail. I consider them sort of deposits in a creative inspiration bank. When I have nothing to write about, I just yank out a bit of weirdness from my past. Or yours.

So be forewarned, friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, casual acquaintances, captivating strangers, members of the faceless crowd: I am a writer and I’m taking notes. Every twist of the tongue, every nuanced look, every drunken rant is grist for the mill - for my blog, for my novel, for my next volume of poetry.

And, of course, I forward email.

Here is an interesting one from a guy I met at through a mutual acquaintance. He told me he was a budding writer, and that his favorite author was John Grisham. He didn’t have a second favorite author, as I recall. Anyway, I think we got into a discussion about why poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, something wicked deep, and although the reason escapes me now, I gave him my email address. About a month later, I received this literary gem:

Dearest,

You can tell that you have a core of molten lava, burning beneath your surface. How can mere skin and bones contain such a smoldering, passionate soul? I've been looking for that super-heated heart in another. When joined with my own, our auras will be seen from space.

Can you meet me tonight at Margarita's on the Boulevard for two-for-one tacos? Say after work?

My work number is 555-555-5555. My home number is 555-555-555.

David

Naturally, this was too awesome to be true. I immediately forwarded my treasure to Marc. His reply came rather quickly.

Hey,

I did a reverse search on his number. Got his name and address. Then called Margarita's and placed an order for 3 dozen tacos. They deliver. I hope he's home. And likes spice.

Marc

Next entry: Cat Funeral