I am all for “reinventing” oneself, but I am almost
certain you are, or were, the earnest narcissist I spent
a wearying evening with a year or so back. Am I right in
thinking I know you? Does a little French place in the
East Village after the gory Korean film at the Sunshine
I pride myself on being a game gal. But your colleagues
and admirers should know that you are not always the
aboveboard fellow you would have us believe. You did
tell me—though not until the tarte tatin had
come—that you were still very much involved with your
ex. Remember what you asked me after telling me that?
Remember you said, "What does that have to do with us?"
I remember that I told you I would not see you again,
that this hurt me, and I remember you told me not to be
hurt. Remember that I then posed a multiple-choice
question? I believe I said, "Kent Selkirk: A woman comes
to see you in your apartment and says she is freezing.
You—a) get her a warm sweater from your closet, b) turn
up the thermostat, c) build a toasty fire in the
fireplace, or d) tell her not to be cold."
OK, maybe you are Kent, not "Kent." But in the spirit of
due diligence I feel I had to send this e-mail.
Hey Blake. Is this you? I was looking through old camp
pictures the other day and I started to wonder how you
were doing. It's been forever. By the way this is Logan,
Scout Camp 1994, I know you will remember me if this is
actually you. Two words for you: Team Biatchica,
remember? and all the scout leaders thought it was an
Italian word, HAHA! And the cow dung we put in Elias and
David's tent? Do you remember all that crazy stuff we
did at camp?
Anyway, I found what I thought was you on mystory.com,
at first I wasn't sure because the name said Kent, but
once I got to the paintball stuff I knew it had to be
you. I've been reading along with your exploits, are you
OK? What's all this talk about magnetism and
celebrities? You really have finally taken the plunge,
haven't you. You went nutso on us. haha! Sounds like you
are up to some crazy stuff again. Unfortunately your
mystory profile was changed to “private” the other day
and I couldn't access it. Luckily I found you again on
the porch and pictures this time. You look a little
different but mostly the same ol' Blake.
Holler at me if this is you, I miss those talks we had
when you visited me in D.C. Hit me up when you get a
P.S. If you check out
my porch account you'll
see a picture of us when we visited the White House. I
really do look like a young Drew Carey, don't I?!
This is the last email I'll be writing you. I thought we
were friends and I have given you so many chances to
apologize for your actions. What you did to me was
unacceptable and I tried to give you a chance to
apologize. You never did. Then the way you treated my
sister is just unforgivable. Still I gave you a chance
to explain yourself and apologize once again. The only
response I ever got was that fucking voicemail from when
you called me drunk and started yelling and cursing at
me. So now our friendship is over. I don't know how we
became friends in college, you were an insecure asshole
even back then. I should have known. Please don't call,
write, or attempt to contact me ever again.
P.S. If I ever hear about you trying to talk to my
sister again you'll need more than that stupid paintball
gun to protect yourself.
Hey There “Active Angel,”
It's Sarah Flick from Wisconsin. Remember me?
How could you? We spoke, but you never saw my face. I'm
a nurse and a kidnapping victim. That ring a bell? My
crankhead ex-boyfriend drugged me, duct-taped me and
drove me to California a couple of months ago—and you, I
found out with a teensy bit of research (thanks to
MyStory.com), were the operator who sent the cops who
finally put Marcus (my ex) in the high-security lockup
where he belongs (and which he’d just been released from
when I started e-mailing him, which was a MAJOR mistake,
I realized later).
I never forget a favor. Write me back, Kent. Maybe we
could meet up “in the flesh” someday.
I just hope this isn't another HUGE mistake!
* * *
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