Thursday, September 25, 2008


I knew I was in trouble, early on. Maybe it was the way she responded to me with her fingers. I imagined metallic brick red tipped digits lightly, but nimbly and adeptly typing the words, “my liege, my humble frontiersman on this hunt for literary perfection, for spiritual gravity. You're seated at the right hand” or “Much, much luv!”, or greater still, “Uh, you collapse me! YOU BETTA WRITE!” Those words alone had me on my knees searching for my breath.

I’ve always been a sucker for a woman that first, has an interest in me and second, knows the right thing to say at the right time in the right way. It’s not just about the words. It takes the words though. That’s the cover charge. That’s the ante. But then she’s got to: start at zero, turn one click to the left, spin the dial back to the right four clicks, then back left and stop on three, the combination to my soul. This woman was a heartsafe crackin’ cat burglar, deftly breaking into me, stealing my mind and taking it back to her place where she plunders my being. Damn. I’m suing the security company.

I was fascinated with her from the start. It was as if I were the literary Magic Johnson seeing Byrd for the first time. Friend or foe? I didn’t know but she had mad mad game and Respect rudely pushed its way in front of Wonder and Envy to get a courtside seat.
I had to physically close my mouth after three paragraphs of her genius wafted off the screen, encircled my head like smoke and soaked into my ashy existence like cocoa butter. She revitalized me and didn’t even know I was on the planet. “Who is this new kid on the block?” Scratch that, who is this literary goddess that has descended from Mt. Olympus without warning or fanfare that has shown up…and just written?

I paid my proper respects. “Girl where did you come from?!?! This is genius!” Then I moved on…or so I thought. There are a lot of good writers out there. Lots. I don’t vibe with them all though. There are great artist that sing country music. I don’t listen to it. But something about her stayed in the back of my mind.

Soon she was showing up at my spot, dropping props and terms of endearment. The goddess butterfly has come to light on my particular petal? And I’m “baby?” Houston, we have a problem! My appetite for her every word went diesel. The emails began, the exchanges increased. She seemed to be feeling me. I was definitely feeling her. Her every word tasted like sweetened condensed milk and I wanted to taste them over and over again. What is this gift wrapped in an invisible bow? What does she look like? What does she sound like? Do I even want to know? Because when I fall, I fall hard…and too fast for my own good. Why is she taking so damn long to email me back?!

We exchanged cyber glances and blog rib pokes. She smelled so kilobyte good. Every keystroke sent shockwaves through my world and I began to fall…

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