I take my job seriously because people depend on it. I protect the email. I protect the user. I even protect information. I am the Spam Folder.
Every day I catch stray spam, trying to weasel its way into the computer. Save 20% off your next purchase when you try SalonPro Scalp Control! It stands at the edge of my decision, pleading its case as if it was something new.
“The scalps of innocent people may flake off entirely if they don’t take precaution now!” I’ve seen it all.
Filled almost to the brim, I have become invisible. Please, just empty the spam, I pray to the user every evening before rush hour. I don’t know how much more I can take before completely slowing down.
Happy Dating Love Available For Destiny!!!!
I capture it, wrestling with the idea of actual destiny. Maybe there is something to the email. Maybe even if it is junk mail, the opportunity for love will conquer. I think of my user, tapping on the keys for hours at a time. Even at night the laptop is on. If real love existed, the power of online wouldn’t consume so much.
Real, live, girls looking for marriage! Good food! Happy home! Happy heart!
No, this is not beneficial. I pluck the email from an undecided cloud and bury it behind Mattress Discount Blowout!! Act Now And Receive Clean Sheets!!!
I have room for only one more email. The account is slow and I feel as if I am swimming through a public streaming of the Academy Awards.
Are you addicted to the internet?
It comes at me during a suspicious time: the small hours. Once 3AM hits, foreign spammers swarm with offers of everything from anti-aging miracles to fashion modeling careers. This goes against the script.
Do you spend more than 4 hours a day online?
I know for a fact that social media takes up at least a few hours of time per day. Once down the search engine rabbit hole, the spam accumulates to maximum capacity.
Do you feel less comfortable than you used to when socializing face to face?
This service, whatever it is, could truly benefit those from a certain generation.
Call now to set up your initial consultation at 1-900-293-2726. Please disclose your name, email address, cell number, and any social media account profiles that are active and we will get back to you within 2 business days.
The need for information seems inappropriate. Social media accounts are of no use to anyone except marketers. But perhaps this company will ultimately help detangle the addiction of online exposure. Not to mention, the email account could truly be destroyed if information isn’t handled properly. By letting the advertisement through, I could be preventing much larger problems in the future.
Do the right thing for real connections.
The email address contains a name. John McCall. There is a business account attached to the address. It’s probably a registered company. It’s probably legit.
There once lived a space heater with little warmth. Every winter, when the office was frozen as an icicle, he was placed on the floor next to a pair of high heels. With the thermostat knob switched all the way to the right and the power turned on high, he shook with the struggle to heat.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.” The high heels tapped impatiently.
The space heater tried harder. With heaving breaths from deep inside the mechanics of his being, he blew as deeply as he could.
“It’s like you don’t even want to be of use.” The high heels stomped.
The space heater coughed and sputtered. Its feelings were on fire.
“Are you going to break down now?” The high heels clicked. “Not that it would make much of a difference.”
The space heater glared at the rubber sole next to him. It wasn’t even soft. It would never be comfortable. He heaved his breath once again.
“It’s almost like you’re blowing cold air. Like an air conditioner.” The heels remarked.
Sparks flew from inside the space heater. Tiny flickers of orange and white stars burst from the fan to the floor.
The heels stared silently in astonishment.
Electrical shocks of steaming energy scattered across the power cord. Flames were now threatening the carpet.
“What is wrong with you?!” The high heels said again. “You’re going to burn down the office!”
The space heater noticed a patch of leather oozing off the edge of a shoe. The smell was like plastic with a worn sense of age and instantly the space heater shut down. He shuddered. He melted. With one last glance at the double polished pair, the space heater finally recoiled.
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Age: Expiration date optional
Body Type: Curvy
Someone who is mysterious and probably misunderstood. Substance use is acceptable as long as it’s for healing purposes only.
My Ideal Date:
Watching old VHS tapes of Tom Waits and comparing it to your band.
Three Things I Can’t Live Without:
1.)The joy of helping others
3.)The back shelf of your pantry
I’m at a point in my life where I know what works. I have faith in myself.
One thing I am exceptionally good at:
Decreasing a tense situation.
Complicated by Avril Lavigne
“Be My Headache.”
“I don’t do sparkles.”
“You don’t have to if I’m there.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Everybody needs shine in their life.”
“It’s better to be bright.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sick of this.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“Let’s not be trashy.”
“Just because you’re old, doesn’t mean you’re classic.”
“Do we need to stay home tonight?”
“Depends if you’re going.”
“Yes. As long as you’re not ostentatious.”
“Why is a little attention so bad?”
“It’s not the amount, it’s the type.”
“Fine. I’ll stay home.”
“You can’t stay home.”
“I don’t want to have a bad time.”
There comes a time in everyone’s life where the past seems better than the present. You get old, you get tired, you don’t feel like driving twenty minutes to work every single day and you start to think, remember that time when I was seventeen?
No. You don’t remember that time when you were seventeen. You don’t remember when your best friend’s mom screamed at you for feeding her son pot out of a hollowed out apple. You don’t remember how your stomach bulged out of the neon green spandex that you had to buy because Stacy Q. was beyond amazing. You don’t remember the first time you went to a night club and danced until you accidentally elbowed the shy guy in the eye.
You remember Sublime. You remember sitting stretched out in the back of your friend’s 1980’s Honda Accord while you dangled your arm out the window. You remember the rainbow-colored beanie that you could have sworn were the colors of the Jamaican flag. You remember that guy with the dreads who said you didn’t ever need to shampoo again just as long as you had Bees Wax. You remember thinking you could keep riding in that car forever.
But thank God, you got out. You no longer had to stay on your mom’s couch eating pizza Pringles and watching reruns of bad sitcoms. You made it past abstinence-only education, dodgeball, and pregnant cheerleaders.
Now you just have to change the CD.
It was never Sublime. It will never have been Sublime. It’s been over 20 years and you hate pop reggae.
I swallowed a secret a million years before numbers, so that nothing could be held accountable.
Scrolled up, jotted down, and shoved to the back of a bottle, the message was almost drowned.
Let me out! Let me out! A pocketed paper screamed from below.
But when pulled up and rolled out, the ink had smeared rows.
Neither black, nor white, with no crisp lines to write on,
the page merged gray in conviction.
“But what was the secret?”
The question in question has stopped being questioned.
The message was found irresponsible.
She’ll always love me. She’ll always love me because she picks me first.
I see her come in from the wind and cold, her hair clumped in an odd arrangement of hairspray. Ear phones jammed as far inside her ears as possible. She is oblivious to everything except hunger.
She walks inside, scanning the aisles of the market with her life’s soundtrack following every step. Grapefruit? Too sour. Organic Sugar? Too pretentious. It’s a Bittersweet Symphony playing on repeat.
Nobody used to pick me. I stayed in the back of the freezer, hoping a fat Polish woman might see me and exclaim, “Supper!”
Day after day the market manager moved me to different areas of the store. First I was next to the pizzas. Surely someone would pick me if I was associated with something fast and cheap. I stared across the aisle, focusing intensely on the Leanfast bars. A woman in a bikini with dyed blond hair and a spray tan devoured the chocolate seductively. I was definitely in the wrong position.
Next, the market manager moved me to the ice cream section. I tried to be cool and aloof, like one of those anorexic French women who thought hunger itself was a sign of shameless need. No one was biting.
At last, they stuck me with the vegetables where all good food goes to die.
But then she came.
I could tell she was of the boring variety by the absence of color in her wardrobe and the way she chatted with primarily women over sixty-five.
“Don’t bother with those batteries,” she pointed to a shelf full of Duracell’s while an older woman scratched her head. “They may be on sale, but they’re never as good as the Energizers.”
After moving on from the batteries, she scanned the fruits. Too tart.
She scanned the pizza. Too greasy.
She scanned the vegetables and shook her head with obvious disappointment.
And then she saw me.
“Pierogi!” She said with glee. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
Some of you have been asking when and where you can buy my book. According to my publisher, the print version will be released later this month. I will keep you updated.
The book, Object Relations, will feature many of the stories from this blog. Illustrations are done by Petra Wagner and the photographer is Tom Haynes.
For additional information, please feel free to email me directly at: RebeccaColesLee@gmail.com
Well, gum, here you are again.
How do you always get stuck in these situations?
I don’t know.
You think you would learn. Last time it was the boy with wolf teeth. Before that, just dentures.
You think I’d learn.
But you don’t. You never learn.
Maybe we should continue to talk about it and I will remember next time.
But that’s what we did last time.
I know. I’m not as slick as I’d hoped.