Another post to go straight to M1’s ego (something someone else commented on, well, sort of… not specifically the amount of posts dedicated to M1, but the attention I give her).

So, I finally got to chat with her–my precious M1–which seemed like it was going to be amazing and all sorts of awesome and, of course, she vanished. Out into some sunny Pacific timezone wherever. I might have even found out what color her eyes are… or, gasp, maybe her middle name. But then she vanished. Poof. Off to spend time with whatever lucky person or persons get to spend time with her. Gets to make her happy, spend evenings with her, make her martinis, listen to Van Morrison with her, smell her skin after a day at the beach, read the papers on a Sunday morning… a rainy Sunday morning or pepper her belly with baby kisses.

And, obviously, to plagiarize, for the second time in one day, from the movie Beautiful Girls. But my plagiarized sentence is better written than their script.

And I’d want to listen to Astral Weeks with M1. So there, that wasn’t in the fucking movie so it’s not plagiarism. And we can drop the Sunday papers thing too while we’re at it. If I were in a position to spend rainy mornings, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday with M1, I can damn well guarantee I wouldn’t be reading a fucking newspaper. There are more important things than being well-informed.

See, if I’d gotten to chat with her, I might have asked M1 if she’d ever heard Astral Weeks, which I only heard for the first time last year or something… because I’m lame like that.

But I didn’t and whatever, it’s fine.

Here’s what isn’t fine:

Getting a bunch of damn mailing lists, all of them ringing my inbox indicator, every one getting my spirits up a little.

For all the time blog-time she gets, I don’t really know anything about M1. That’s why she’s Mysterious. And I’m hoping when I call her My Precious Mysterious One, she’s not bothered by the use of the possessive adjective. I get excited when I get to talk to her, because it doesn’t happen a lot.

I don’t get excited about getting fucking mailing list offers–mailing lists where you have to log in to confirm you don’t want them, mailing lists where you have to click through to a link, mailing lists where you have to respond with “UNSUBSCRIBE” in the message line, mailing lists where you have to log in to confirm you don’t want them and then log in again to confirm you want to cancel them, mailing lists where you have to log in, click through and respond with–fuck them. That’s the problem with the internet and mailing lists. If everyone took the time to call the companies who are sending him or her mailing lists and told them to fuck off, I’ll bet it’d stop. No more logging in, clicking through, responding with. Inbox indicators wouldn’t go off for bullshit sales on movie posters, software updates and announcements of vibrators that play O Come All Ye Faithful.

M1 was having a rough day and I’m hoping she’s all right. Admittedly, the movie posters, software updates and vibrators that play O Come All Ye Faithful aren’t getting in the way of her being all right or even her telling me she’s all right. She might not be telling me because she’s being made happy or a made a martini or listening to Van Morrison or having wonderful smelling skin after a day at the beach or having someone pepper her belly with baby kisses. The lucky fuck.

But still–I don’t want to hear about the movie posters, software updates or vibrators that play O Come All Ye Faithful right now. I want my inbox for emails I want to read.

It occurs to me, between M1, the Mac Aficionado and Lady Sascha, the blog’s changing a bit. It’s getting a cast of characters, it’s developing, perturbing and becoming–it’s in a constant state of becoming. Not to mention the emphasis on the writing. I mean, I fucking love this post. I haven’t been as happy with my colloquial writing since I was in undergrad and my writing professor tried to get me a newspaper column. I feel sunny inside over my colloquial writing style on this blog. It’s lovely. If it were a girl… well, okay, I mean, if it were a girl it wouldn’t be that great of a girl. I don’t know if I’d even ask my blog out if it were a girl and I wasn’t married. But, it’d be a good looking girl or a handsome woman. It’d be a handsome woman. It’d be the Agnes Moorehead of colloquially written blogs if it were a woman. Agnes Moorehead was a great looking woman, but I imagine her roles kind of killed her as a sex symbol, whether it’s as Charlie Kane’s mother or aunt Fanny, not the hot roles–if you think about it, Welles didn’t really have hot roles until he was married to Rita Hayworth.

But anyway. The CliffsNotes version of the piece–#1 fuck mailing lists. #2 M1, wherever in the Pacific timezone you are, I hope you are feeling better and wish I could do something do make you feel as such.

And motherfucker if I didn’t just get a fucking mailing list from Technorati? Who the fuck wants an email from Technorati? They don’t sell movie posters, they don’t sell software updates, they don’t even sell vibrators that play O Come All Ye Faithful.