Why did you have to leave me? I miss you and your credit card.

I talked dirty and indulged your desire to act out on unprocessed psychological issues. I put up with your and comments about the livid New England summer heat wearing nothing but my pubic hair and a smile. I even maintained the visage of interest in the ubiquitous subject of the recent breakup of your nine year relationship as long as we went out for $12 cocktails first and you promised not to talk about it while you were fucking me.

You bought me $200 dinners and high end sex toys. You flirted with the idea of buying me some very cute wrist pink restraints. You told your Doberman Pinschers not to attack me after a particularly loud bdsm scene.

Why oh why did I insult your substitution of intelligent e-conversation with a million emoticons, thus forever severing my connection to your credit card with a seemingly endless credit limit?

I promise that from here on out I shall pepper my own emails with those little yellow smiling faces that have multiplied in an e-broth of e-motional incompetence to produce a million variations of moving yellow pixels more horrifying than any faux true life confession featured in any reality tv spin-off series. Those emoticons multiplied faster than the lies of the George W. Bush administration, and carried less genuine expressively than even Laura Bush’s most concerted effort to convey grievance for dead Iraqi children (even though those future warriors against the beauty of Western Civilization (the pinnacle of which, we all know, are emoticons. And if you hate emoticons, you must hate America))

Yes, I should like your emoticons to return to my computer screen and your high end sex toys to return to my erogenous zones. I will even put a begging emoticon at the end of this sentence to underscore the sincerity of my plea.

Please come back to me . . . as long as you bring your credit card with you.

xoxo,

J.