Free Year of the Chick by Romi Moondi Page B
Authors: Romi Moondi
Monday morning, and yet another damn week of being clueless in the dating scene.
The final thing to do was shut down my laptop, but not before one last narcissistic e-mail check. My narcissism was rewarded with a brand new comment on my blog, from someone named James Caldwell.
----------------------------------
Hello Romi,
What a funny blog you have. Keep up the good work...
James, a distant fan
----------------------------------
I sat there for a moment, as my face turned upwards in a smile I couldn’t help. It was strange, because for all the comments I’d received from creepy men, no guy had ever thought to mention my sense of humour. And this one didn’t even smother me with flirting.
I’m intrigued.
I could see that James Caldwell had a blog of his own, so I immediately clicked for a read.
I sat there frozen for the next five minutes. By the end my eyes were over-flowing with tears. As the tears started dripping down my cheeks, I wiped them away in disbelief. How on earth could seven hundred words about a guy’s first love affect me so profoundly?
And who wrote lines like: “ When everything else has been taken away, all that’s left is the truth. ”
James did!
I scrolled further down his page. “ Tomorrow is never guaranteed like yesterday always is. ”
This guy was deep.
I switched to the Personal Bio page. He was an ex-pat living in Barcelona, but I couldn’t care less about the details. Not when his picture left my mouth hanging open.
In a small but close-up jpeg was a super-hot dude, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. I was shocked to even see it, since the majority of bloggers never even published a photo. I didn’t have a picture either, and it’s not like I was hiding three nostrils or a giant hairy wart. It just wasn’t common.
Once I moved past the idea of a picture, I was mostly shocked to see an actual writer who was sexy. Before I could fall into a state of drippy drool, I smartened up to the fact that his picture was of course a fake. And how could it not be? Sexy guys didn’t have blogs, and sexy guys didn’t know how to write. Even in the smallest chance that the picture was actually real, how did I know it was current? His generic blue golf shirt, short sandy hair and plain black shades were inconclusive.
Maybe it’s a file photo from 1987.
Despite my doubts the truth didn’t seem to matter, since his profile page was filled with comments. Most of his comments were from female bloggers, and they sure didn’t mind letting loose with all the horny propositions.
I laughed at the thought of this psycho-freak, reeling in the women with his hot-ass, fake-ass picture.
Even so, I too left a flirty-ass comment on his page, if only to compete with all the other drooling bitches.
***
The next day I checked my e-mail before even getting out of bed. To my pleasant surprise, another blog comment from James Caldwell awaited. So I danced my way to his blog and left another one for him.
Yes Mr. Creepo, you have my attention.
***
Where has James Caldwell gone?
We’d been bouncing comments for days, but suddenly James had disappeared. He wasn’t even posting new material.
Maybe he’s dead.
Even though I knew this guy was probably a psycho, I missed his funny comments in my life.
This feels unhealthy.
I thought about it some more as I finished my healthy dessert of blueberries and a large bowl of ice cream ( at least it’s low-fat ). I knew I had to dig a little deeper, but I couldn’t keep leaving comments on the same posts over and over.
Maybe I should send him an e-mail.
I audibly gasped at this psycho move.
Then I bounded up the stairs to do it.
I already had his e-mail address, since readers were obliged to provide it when they left me a blog comment. But to actually abuse that personal information with a message?
You only live once…is that what rapists and murderers say?
----------------------------------
Hey James,
Where have you been?
The final thing to do was shut down my laptop, but not before one last narcissistic e-mail check. My narcissism was rewarded with a brand new comment on my blog, from someone named James Caldwell.
----------------------------------
Hello Romi,
What a funny blog you have. Keep up the good work...
James, a distant fan
----------------------------------
I sat there for a moment, as my face turned upwards in a smile I couldn’t help. It was strange, because for all the comments I’d received from creepy men, no guy had ever thought to mention my sense of humour. And this one didn’t even smother me with flirting.
I’m intrigued.
I could see that James Caldwell had a blog of his own, so I immediately clicked for a read.
I sat there frozen for the next five minutes. By the end my eyes were over-flowing with tears. As the tears started dripping down my cheeks, I wiped them away in disbelief. How on earth could seven hundred words about a guy’s first love affect me so profoundly?
And who wrote lines like: “ When everything else has been taken away, all that’s left is the truth. ”
James did!
I scrolled further down his page. “ Tomorrow is never guaranteed like yesterday always is. ”
This guy was deep.
I switched to the Personal Bio page. He was an ex-pat living in Barcelona, but I couldn’t care less about the details. Not when his picture left my mouth hanging open.
In a small but close-up jpeg was a super-hot dude, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. I was shocked to even see it, since the majority of bloggers never even published a photo. I didn’t have a picture either, and it’s not like I was hiding three nostrils or a giant hairy wart. It just wasn’t common.
Once I moved past the idea of a picture, I was mostly shocked to see an actual writer who was sexy. Before I could fall into a state of drippy drool, I smartened up to the fact that his picture was of course a fake. And how could it not be? Sexy guys didn’t have blogs, and sexy guys didn’t know how to write. Even in the smallest chance that the picture was actually real, how did I know it was current? His generic blue golf shirt, short sandy hair and plain black shades were inconclusive.
Maybe it’s a file photo from 1987.
Despite my doubts the truth didn’t seem to matter, since his profile page was filled with comments. Most of his comments were from female bloggers, and they sure didn’t mind letting loose with all the horny propositions.
I laughed at the thought of this psycho-freak, reeling in the women with his hot-ass, fake-ass picture.
Even so, I too left a flirty-ass comment on his page, if only to compete with all the other drooling bitches.
***
The next day I checked my e-mail before even getting out of bed. To my pleasant surprise, another blog comment from James Caldwell awaited. So I danced my way to his blog and left another one for him.
Yes Mr. Creepo, you have my attention.
***
Where has James Caldwell gone?
We’d been bouncing comments for days, but suddenly James had disappeared. He wasn’t even posting new material.
Maybe he’s dead.
Even though I knew this guy was probably a psycho, I missed his funny comments in my life.
This feels unhealthy.
I thought about it some more as I finished my healthy dessert of blueberries and a large bowl of ice cream ( at least it’s low-fat ). I knew I had to dig a little deeper, but I couldn’t keep leaving comments on the same posts over and over.
Maybe I should send him an e-mail.
I audibly gasped at this psycho move.
Then I bounded up the stairs to do it.
I already had his e-mail address, since readers were obliged to provide it when they left me a blog comment. But to actually abuse that personal information with a message?
You only live once…is that what rapists and murderers say?
----------------------------------
Hey James,
Where have you been?
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