My friend D (and that’s not a pseudonym, but instead a sobriquet in that that’s actually what I call her and is short for her real name) sent me back an email I had written her nearly two years ago. She was working on a cruise ship and would be out to sea for several months. Apparently I lamented it enough to write some kind of fevered missive, possibly whilst drunk. Either way, it cracked me up:
Jan 14th 2009
“I wax philosophic pretty much constantly, but especially at night. I had a vague recollection of writing one of my good friends an e-mail in reply to her asking me, almost literally, “What’s up?”. In checking my sent items this morning, I confirmed that I did indeed reply…and she got a good return on her investment. Assuming words are currency. And it rains donuts. I digress.
That IS weird. I mean, you can’t cook!
In summary, I miss you desperately. I don’t mean that as a playful exaggeration, I actually do miss you to near the point of desperation. Luckily for me, my memory is shot through by whiskey-created neurological voids and I have only the vaguest of notions that your house is somewhere in a direction from here. Otherwise, I might be on your front lawn with a boombox over my head a la John Cusack. I would, however, be blasting Journey.
I’m on a literary roll, please save this for my posthumous memoirs.
Working a lot. 62 hours last week not including the weekend. Searching for meaning in my life. Strangely finding little solace in iPod accessories. Turns out that you can’t really have a passionate love affair with an FM transmitter without rather horrific physical consequences. And you thought your high school reunion was awkward!
I’m not finding an easy answer to the question of what I’m going to do without you for 8 months.
Dancing is good, yes? In truth and self-boasting I say this a lot, but even then not nearly enough: I’m proud of you, D.
No, I don’t know why your boyfriends don’t write you stuff like this, either. ZING!
PS she didn’t call. Shock! Dismay!”
I can’t even recall who “she” was.