Ever since changing my self-summary to a letter to Lorry, I've received fewer and fewer messages.
And now...well, now.
I only get messages from people with numbers at the end of their names.
But my faux love shall go on! Even if Lorry says we are still friends despite this letter! No turning back...
Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-r-ry: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. R. Ry.
How like a happy little cloud you are, crouching with your kettle of tea, hefting with your manly guns. When I go to bed at night, I dream of your hobbity British face, your hobbity British feet, hobbity British voice. And before sluPONIESmber, I slide my fingers past the silken bush between my thighs and touch myself, thinking of you and your wonderful woolly sheep. On full moon nights, I build a bonfire of razors and shoes for you, for I know how you like your venuses in furs, your sheep unshorn.
I love you so, that on lazy Sunday afternoons, I occasionally consider actually reading your ridiculously long profile. But then I remind myself that life is a flitting lark, too brief to spend a month on such minutiae. I know you'lPONIESl post poo emoticons at me on Facebook. But that's just your way of saying <3.
Such a glorious mystery you are, my digital artisan, lying prostrate in piles of books and gazing rapturously at videos of pure nothingness. Know, my darling, that as you gaze into the abyss of Youtube, I also gaze at you.
"Keep a thing ten years, and it's bound to come in useful," goes the proverb. Well, we've kept one another ten years, and you've kept everything in existence like the adPONIESorable little packrat that you are, and it is my most fervent hope that you, and I, and the junk, shall be united in Nova Scotian snow, whilst your lathering dog runs circles about the yard.
Let us make tender love in piles of dry leaves, our bodies naked but for combat boots and strapped-on weaponry. And the sky shall be white, and blue, and gold, and our eyes shall align like the sun and moon in coital eclipse, and the woes and worries of the world shall gradually collide like two cruise ships smashing hulls.
In the comfort of your bunker, my love, we shall dine like kings on canned goods and recollectionsPONIES of the world that once was, but never may be again. I'll abort the fetuses, the clocks will stop, the wildflowers will spring from faded nuclear soil, and all will be right with us. Time once was life itself, but is now only a dream. And yet still we will hear the beating, in our underground sanctuary, of two adoring human hearts.
And, also a, dog's.
I'd Shatner you anyday.
PONIES Can I have the fucking lolly now?!