Mea Culpa

To whom it may concern (if it does not concern you, then you need go no further — a lack of concern would only distress us both):

There’s something I need to tell you… a confession, if you will. In fact, I think of you as my virtual confessor. That makes sense, since everything we do together is virtual — confession, sex, gossip, fight. It’s all virtual. You’re virtual. But anyhow, dearest virtual one, here is my confession. I believe the world is ending. This may disturb you… either the fact that I believe this to be the case, or the fact of the ending itself. Either way, my confession has achieved its purpose. I may now pass my sense of responsibility on to you. You may choose to make me feel better about the ending of the world, or you may choose to prevent such an ending. Either way. Your problem now.

Oh, there’s more. I have another confession. I have deceived you with another (virtual) woman. Well, I assume she is a woman. She types as I imagine a woman would type. During our impassioned session of virtual lovemaking, she keyed in the appropriate sounds and reactions, so I can only assume that I have, in fact, deceived you. My previous declarations of undying virtual love are now to be considered null and void. Please tear up the contract. Then, please forgive me.

You have forgiven me? Then, I have another confession to make.  I am not who you believe me to be. I do not ride stallions majestically across the white sands. I will not, cannot, never intended to sweep you into my strong, sculpted, hirsute arms (sorry — I found the picture that I sent you on an anonymous blog about arm fetishes) and rescue you from the drudgery that is your so-called real life. There is very little in what I emailed you that is fact. I am really 14 years old, live in my parents’ basement, and masturbate nightly to that slightly blurry photo you sent me of you in that diaphanous white gown and silver stiletto heels.

Oh. Not really you? I am deceived. I am destroyed. I am devastated.

You are forgiven.