"megan send me your gmail address. you don't have to write anything else. it will take less time than it took you to read this sentence. i think we exchanged similar facebook messages like three months ago. you said then that we should chat on gmail and then i got excited and sent you my gmail address and i waited, sat on my hands and waited. and then two months passed. and i felt as so many fat, acne plagued middle-school girls do when, at their first co-ed dance, they confront the stark reality of romance, love, and beauty, and when the first germ of cynicism begins to reach its hairy root into the fecund compost of their recently dead expectations, when they begin to develop a dark, protectionist aspect that finds ill-conceived comfort in the music of tori amos, in the normative anti-aesthetic of new england lesbianism, and in a poorly crafted, but endearing effigy of janeane garofalo, which they sometimes carry with them on their person, but which they always, with a devotion heretofore reserved for saints and martyrs, imitate, when years later after a cavalcade of monogamous relationships with several women from various continents they arrive at the dark, quiet corner of epiphany and whisper quietly to themselves that they really quite liked dick all along, and, in their regret for a misspent life, liken their suffering to the plight of women generally, to the plight of victims, to the wretched of the earth, in their own misguided trajectory, they see the tear-stained wagon tracks of post-colonialism, and, with an anger fueled at once by embarrassment and the newly written narratives of the dispossessed, seek out that moment at which they stepped so far afield, track down the origin of their implacable grief, and find themselves face to face with a girl, full of hope, in paisley and bow, sitting on her hands waiting patiently for a swain who would never come.
so send me your fucking gmail address."