Dearest Aamy

[Ed. Note: About a month ago, I received a spam email from Aamy. This is what I wrote her back. As of press time, I am still awaiting a response from my true love.]

Dearest Aamy,
I hope I'm spelling your name right. I suppose it could simply be that you accidentally made a typo with the two "A's", lord knows when I've been taking a few tokes from the lightbulb that I keep (for safety's sake) under the dumpster behind my local McDonald's, I start to get a little loopy, too. What I'm hopeful for though, is that your spelling is correct and that you are perhaps, A Foreigner. Not a member of that pompous, chickenshit '80s band, but actually from a different country with a different skin colour; a different language; a different set of hopes, beliefs and family values; a different definition of personal hygiene. Although, now that I think about it, Foreigner did have one decent song: "Waiting for a Girl Like You". I'm listening to it now. Because I have been, Aamy. I've been waiting a long time. A very long time.

For years, I've been unable to form any sort of connection with a woman. I guess it all comes back to my childhood. I lived with my mother and six sisters. My story is common, of course: my father fled the scene only a few years after I was born. He was bound for California, drawn by the allure of riches, fame, suntans and fake breasts and (most especially my mother and sisters believe) by a nearly-psychopathic yearning (only physically, you understand) for Jennie Garth, who you may remember, played the role of Kelly Taylor on the original 90210 series. I don't remember my dad as the father, the man, but I guess that's why I find myself living in the 90210 zipcode today, searching for the father I can't remember, never even knew. But I've gotta say, Jennie Garth is one fine piece of ass.

But I digress.

As a result of my father's abandonment of us kids and Mama, I was the only boy in a home of women. We lived in a far north-eastern area of Quebec, Canada. As a result of living on the Quebec/Labrador border, I quickly became fluent in the Acadian dialect as well as a smattering of dirty phrases in Finnish. This however, was my only exposure to the outside world, seen through a haze of fiddle jigs and reels and the groping sweaty hands of the fisherman who brought tales of the lands far away and learned me in the customs of other cultures.

You'd be amazed at what the Dutch use as a greeting between a young boy and his elder.

When I finally was able to branch out on my own it was with limited skills although, as you can imagine, living with six older sisters I became an expert at pleasing a woman orally-speaking. However, I found my experiences growing up not entirely conducive to attracting a female mate on my own. And so, I made my way to California, bumming rides when I could. Being bummed when I needed to drink on a miniscule budget.

Finally I ended up here, confronted by all the things I'd heard, discovering it all to be true, but on a grander scale than even I could imagine. And I can imagine a lot of things, Aamy. For example, I can imagine what I'd do to you after we'd downed a couple bottles of mountain whiskey when we're all alone in the middle of no where, with only each other and the livestock in the barn...

But I digress.

I spent a couple of years desperately searching for Jennie Garth. Hopeful that she might have heard from my father, whether from having read the thousands of letter he sent, or perhaps she watched the literally hundreds of VHS tapes he recorded in the basement for her. I was only three or four-years-old when he left us, but I remember our basement filled to the ceiling all with those fucking tapes. He was an artist. I'm an artist, too. I'd love to show you some of my pieces very soon. I keep them in the woods, away from the eyes of those who don't appreciate real culture. In the end, I never found Jennie Garth or my father and so I hit rock bottom. I gave up, willing to accept my bleak (and probably not very lengthy) future of heavy abuse of high-altitude mountain brew and methamphetamines.

And so, needless to say, your incredible email hit me like a ton of bricks shot straight from Cupid's bow out of a clear blue sky on Christmas morning. I guess it's true what they say: you find love where you least expect it. Now, I'm not saying that it's love already, we've only just met. But I know the signs, Aamy. I know that nervous butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach; the grin I can't seem to get off my face; that sense of lightness as I walk around as if on a cloud; and, of course, the half-erection that I know I should try to hide as I saunter through the office where I deliver the mail. But I just can't hide it, darling. It's too large, despite it's 50% flacidity. And to be honest, Aamy, I don't want to hide it. Love in any form, be it spiritual, emotional or erotic should be expressed out in the open on view for all to see at eye-level as they sit at their desk.

To wit, that here stands a half-cocked stallion of manly-eroticy, nostrils flaring, testicles pulsing, chest rising and falling to the beat of a pounding heart. This is the beginning of Love Aamy, my love for you.

I hope to hear from you soon. Perhaps your phone number so I could hear your precious voice speaking my name in your foreign tongue. Perhaps enjoying your invitation to touch myself as you do so. Or maybe your address? I could be there in just a few days, a week at most. And we could begin my lovely, foreign, darky Aamy. We could start our life together.

We could be happy.
Sincerely,
Your sweetest Julio