Dear Intelligence Agency Employee:
I’m sorry I dated that anarchist guy back in 2006. In my defense, he had really great sideburns. Also in my defense, he asked me out, by pretending he was in a band that had a show, which always works, and anyway I was on the rebound.
And in both of our defenses, the most radical thing we ever did was read Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations to each other in bed. Which I have to admit I really enjoyed. He had it in hardcover. But still I’m sorry.
He did introduce me to some influences that I guess are a little outside the norm, like Shuggie Otis, and Belle and Sebastian, and chicken tikka masala pizza. Our conversations about politics were extremely strained since his made absolutely no sense, but I learned the meaning of the word “meritocracy” and anyway, I’m sure his heart was in the right place, as were all the other parts of him.
Actually I really liked him: he had this perfect alabaster skin, and a Roman nose. I thought he looked like an emperor, but I was reading a lot of Robert Graves at the time. Definitely he looked great in a suit, and was fun to listen to music with. He sort of redefined earnestness for me: apparently it involves a lot of hand gestures.
I remember in the mornings we’d wake up on a bare mattress he’d thrown on the floor, have a cup of coffee with vegan creamer and maybe some bagels he’d scavenged from a dumpster. Then I’d drive him to his job at the Animal Medical Research Facility, because that was the kind of anarchist he was.
Those were good times, peaceful times. He was good at reviving a stale bagel, and I like vegan creamer. It seemed like all we had to do was wait a few years for our squatter’s rights to kick in. And quit paying rent and find a good place to squat, of course.
How strange, what happened instead; what we’ve all be through, now, just because I fell for a guy with great curly hair who liked to drop French words in ordinary conversation. Little could I appreciate or imagine all the accoutrement of life in a surveillance state that were to be mine. And now, huddled here in my car, how can I measure my sympathy for all the irritation I must have caused you, in these intervening years?
You know we broke up, right? Me and the anarchist. After awhile he went off to England to study green energy, and I could have followed–but I’ve never liked British food, except for fried tomatoes at breakfast. And anyway I was being recruited by a bunch of guys who had escaped the NSA at the time*. I guess that’s life.
Or some semblance of it.
Didn’t-Mean-To in Northern Virginia
PS: Can I help it if I don’t like to eat in front of people? I was raised to be polite. I’d like to tell you exactly how much weight I’ve lost, but the scale’s broken and someone took every single battery out of the house while I was at work last week.
Why don’t you come inside sometime when I’m home and I’ll cook us something. Knock first though.
PPS: Thank you for returning my underwear! I guess you didn’t realize that the lacy ones chafe until I typed about it in my diary. And I didn’t realize for awhile why you were taking all of the not-lacy ones away. When I did finally I was a little flattered.
(I’m not seeing anyone right now.)
*I am not, nor have ever been, affiliated in any way with any government organization in any country at any time. I don’t even have a passport. Maybe I should apply for one. Nah.
I hope everybody liked the sample comment selection I approved! I get about a hundred a day when they’re excited about something.
(I think my blog is helping! They sound a lot less vicious and insane than they used to. Cheers!!)