From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Sunday, May 23rd, 1999 12:01 PM
Subject: RE RE RE RE RE So sorry
I feel right shamed by my last email. You must think I’m a lunatic; a real-howl-mooning-Dom-crazy-pants with a collection of aluminium cans and an imaginary friend who has their own imaginary friend that I refuse to admit exists.
See, I’ve never told anyone about my hotel processing before.
Man, I feel like such a wanker.
Please don’t tell anyone. Please.
I know it’s a little nuts. I do. I guess I get a little nuts sometimes.
And my sojourn to the Hilton really helps me put things in perspective.
In a nutsoid way.
And it’s really private. So why the hell did I share it? I won’t ever be able to do it again without truly turning beetroot red.
I have ruined it for myself. You knob shiner, Dom.
See, a large part of me wished I’d never shared it.
Actually it’s more than a large part; every part of my being regrets sharing this.
It’s like admitting you suck your thumb when you’re an adult.
(Which I don’t – I also don’t wet the bed, hurt small animals, start fires or snuggle with a comforter either.
I did however like the Musical Cats when I was thirteen.
“…Of all things can it be really? Yes no – ho-hi oh my eye”
I even indulged in Lloyd-Webber merchandise and purchased the hooded jacket with yellow eyes watching because I thought it was cool and not creepy in any way.
I also had a crush on RuPaul for some reason when I was younger.
When I was a kid I wanted to be an archaeologist/hairdresser so I could finally find out why Cleopatra’s hair was so shiny.
And when I was 15, I became obsessed with the movie Mermaids and had many a dream of Winona Ryder licking my leather jacket. I even posted her my Cats leather jacket with detailed instructions of where she should place her DNA)
Anyway – whatever – with all these admissions, I still think my last email trumps them all.
God I’m an idiot. I hope you can just delete the last email. Please delete it.
Man, now I feel so indulgent too.
I’ve become one of those indulgent whiny men who end up running the country for far too long.
Can you forgive me for that too? (not running the country – for I’m certain if I had that job, my in-house parliamentary memos would be so indulgent that the Reserve Bank’s interest rates would quickly lose interest and the country would be weeping over a tub of vanilla ice-cream an insurance commercials come the end of the year)
Anyway hope my lame attempt at humour might have softened the blow of the wailing wetness of the proceeding.
Yours in dickheadedness