239th email

From: Dom Borax
To: Stacey Marchenkova
Sent: Monday September 21st, 1999 9:51AM
Subject: RE Sorry

Dear Stacey,

I am so sorry I missed your email. It’s hard to get access here. Sometimes I can use the Hotel computer, but I don’t want to push my luck – plus the hotel folk like to play online poker and when they have that gambling look in their eye, I suspect that even if I collapsed dead on their desk, no muscle would be moved to help me.

Royal Flush – Dead Guest – easy choice for the gambler, right?

So that leaves my work computer as an only option – which wipes out weekends and

Blah, blah, blah—

Sorry that’s so boring. I think I’m just trying to evade the obvious and deal with your sad email. I am so sorry that it’s tough for you. If it helps, it’s tough for me too. I mean, why I left just when I met the love of my life. What a fool, right?

How fucking dumb is that?

It’s gotta be one of the stupidest things ever. It has no logic. The only sense I can take from this is self aware self loathing. So much so that even a glimmer of happiness needs to be snuffed out the moment the endorphins kick in.

Fuck.

You are right we need to be punished for being so stupid.

Maybe I’ll just come home.



Love

Dom

PS It also doesn’t help that I met Pauly Shore today in the TV offices. He looked lost as he wandered through this ill considered warren. I approached him at one point to see if he was alright, to see if he was lost.

At first he didn’t answer. Indeed he was silent for a while. It got uncomfortable; like ‘you don’t know where to look’ uncomfortable.

So finally I settled on the most inappropriate place to rest my gaze. I glanced down at his belt buckle. It was a very large golden letter P. I guess he had it in case he loses his trousers.

PAULY SHORE: Excuse me, I’m lost.

I snapped my attention back to his face.

PAULY SHORE: That’s better – eyes on the face.

ME: Sorry. I just love your belt buckle.

PAULY SHORE: I hate it.

ME: Why’d you wear it?

PAULY SHORE: When I wear it, I feel like Pauly Shore.

ME: But you are Pauly Shore.

PAULY SHORE: No I’m not.

ME: Yes you are.

PAULY SHORE: No I’m not. I’m Paul Shore. Not Pauly Shore.

ME: So the difference is the ‘y’

PAULY SHORE: The difference is always the ‘y’

ME: Right.

At this point we lapsed into another moment of silence. Suddenly:

PAULY SHORE: So can you help me or not? I’m lost.

ME: What are you looking for?

PAULY SHORE: What are you looking for? Dude, would you stop being so fucking profound. Jesus Christ. What are you looking for? Man, I wish I knew the answer.

ME: Sorry – didn’t mean to be profound. Let me ask it a different way. Where are you trying to get to?

PAULY SHORE: More metaphysics. Fuck me. You can’t help yourself can you, Yogi?

ME: Are you looking for someone in the office.

PAULY SHORE: No.

ME: Are you looking for the bathroom?

PAULY SHORE: No.

ME: Are you looking for the commissary?

PAULY SHORE: No.

ME: I’m sorry Mr Shore – what are you looking for?

PAULY SHORE: You.

ME: Me?

PAULY SHORE: Yeah you. Why not?

ME: What do you want with me?

PAULY SHORE: I don’t know. I told you I was lost.

And with that he wandered off, deeper into the Fox lot; looking for me once more.

I think I’ve gotta get out of here.

PPS Man, my Post Script was longer than the message itself. That seems out of balance, don’t you think?