Send Help
Y'all, I'm Ariel here, inside my cloven pine
What I should be doing:
Writing fiction
What I am doing:
Looking at His Nibs on LinkedIn and thinking … okay, I can’t send a message cos we aren’t connections … I sent one connection request and I am HALF A CENTURY OLD and refuse to be a spammer so …
I could fill out a fake RFP for his marketing business he’s now advertising on LinkedIn — him, in marketing, I’m the marketer, pipsqueak — and then he’d have to notice me…
Nope. He’d ignore me. Or block, report.
Or he would notice me and there would be trouble.
Not nice, grab-this-girl’s-neck trouble.
Bad, I’m-gonna-permanently-make-this-bitch-not-my-problem trouble.
Y’all, I can spend hours at this. Looking at the one grainy recent photo I have from LinkedIn, the few I pulled from some article from years back about historical weapons. Photos of, get this, a fellow who, when he told me he had a younger sister, described her thus: “My sister is an enormous slut.” Then took me to look at her pointillist art online.
Two unhappy, undersized folk in a chilly metal library in a great large desert, a mile’s walk from anywhere we were supposed to be, sharing the fragments we had to share.
Wish I’d told him thank you and I love you.
I don’t know whether I can write any more stories.
I will, though, of course.
Y’all, I miss him so much.
Send help.