|
The V-Day of Today Makes the Baby Cupid Cry 1/05/02
First off, it seems like the way this campus decides to observe the holiday is through a celebration of sex. Yes, I know it's "Sexual Responsibility Week," but condom-grams? Isn't that--no pun intended here--sending the wrong message? What happened to candy and flowers? Or, for that matter, paper cards? E-cards are convenient, yes, but they still lack that certain flair. A store-bought card at least has a handwritten message. And nothing beats the old-fashioned home-made kind. I decided to go with that option this year--yes, I may not be happy with the state of things, but I'll still celebrate (anything to quell my Martha Stewart impulses). Of course, I'm going to have to mail a lot of them out this year. So, in going through my address book, I found people whose information I didn't have and started seeking them out. I asked two people for their mailing addresses this evening. Both of them immediately gave me their e-mails. The world is truly in a sad state. "No...you know...the thing...with the paper, and the stamps, in the metal box....where you tell them to send your e-bay stuff...you know?" I swear, things were easier in elementary school. You hardly knew what the "S-E-X" word was, you only had to worry about putting the right slip of paper in the right shoebox, and, best of all, when you got candy, you could eat it all and not even think twice. |
|
Name: Tex Comments: Uh. Buddy. Stalking girls over the internet anonymously? I can't describe (within the limitations of proper language, natch) how wrong that is. Please, save the readers of this little production some pain, and just give it up, Johnny boy. There's a lot of things that don't need to be on the internet. Love confessions typed with elbows are among them. Name: Stevedogg Name: Kate
I regret that I haven't responded to your messages until now because words haven't been able to express the way I feel about all this.
There simply aren't enough syllables in the word "no" to adequately convey the extent to which I do not like you, am not interested in you, and frankly do not want anything to do with you. There is no other language that provides a stronger translation; no amount of fancy formatting that could possibly boost the level of meaning to even a shadow of the disgust I harbor for you.
I do not like you, John. Nothing you can say or do can change that. In fact, it only makes things worse. I am sick of your poor spelling, I am sick of the word 'beautiful', and quite frankly you come off as a generally creepy young man.
Go away, John. For if you ever try to see this beutiful face from less than five feet away, the next thing I'll write will be a request for a restraining order.
Have I made myself clear?
Name: John Name: The Mel Name: John Name: John |