I did some soul searching before I wrote this. I’m worried this post might come off the wrong way; you might think of me differently. I don’t want to ruin my impeccable image or to insult my gentle readers.
So let’s get one thing clear: I don’t like Facebook. Especially if the Scobilized rumours are true that Facebook’s lockout of Google’s Friend Connect is a harbinger of far more nefarious and apocalyptic things. Namely: Microface. Or Facesoft. Whatever it will be called, if Microsoft buys Facebook for fifteen billion dollars, Google and the entire open web movement might finally have a concrete bogeyman. In this one case I was forced to use Facebook because it has become a blockbuster. Like mining a scene in Jaws for filmic metaphor instead of Indiana Jones 4. The former was the first big hit of the past but Indy 4 will be even bigger—it’s only a matter of time.
Now for a bit of romance and intrigue:
Yesterday morning, to celebrate Victoria Day, I cleaned out my garage. Over the past century the flotsam and jetsam of dozens have accumulated to unacceptable levels. Especially for spartan me. I Freecycle things that are usable like rusty car-jacks and 1970s Canadian Tire tents weighing over 8,000 pounds. I tossed the old underpants, books (Encyclopedia Canadiana anyone?) and other stuff nobody ever wants.
3:33 p.m. — I find a Calvin Klein Obsession perfume box. Only there is no perfume inside.
Jackpot: I had found someone’s abandoned love letters!:
Dear T: How do I put what I feel in my heart on paper. I’m so confused by you. You never called tonight and I have all these different reasons why going through my head. First I hope you’re okay, and if that’s the case then I suppose you just chose not to call. Why did I all of a sudden become a burden in your life….Love Y xoxox (many times over)
and
Hi T: What’s happening with you? You remember when you told me that you didn’t want me to think of you as an ass hole…Well if you leave and don’t come and say goodbye…Maybe I’ll change my mind!! (it’s a joke, but part of it is true) …
bye my futur star! L xx
and
T:…I’m going to sleep now with thoughts of you and me lying on a blanket at the beach and I’m slowly dragging my fingers through your hair as you strum on your guitar, staring into my eyes….
And so on. Love letters, all to T, written by different young women.
3:42pm — I drop my sacred Victoria Day celebrations and run inside to my Macbook. I (cringe) log in to Facebook. I search for T, L and others. I find and message everyone I can find.
This is the message I sent to love-letter recipient T:
Hey, I was cleaning out my garage and I found a box of love letters addressed to you.
You heart-breaker!!
Chantelle
Ten minutes later I get this reply:
hi chantelle,
wow, I haven’t been in toronto for a long time. curious.
We message back and forth for a few minutes.
At 4:19pm he messages me saying he is coming back to my town for a visit and would like to pick up the letters.
In under an hour, thanks to the socialnets, I found the owner of the love letters and arranged their return.
On the flip side—I haven’t yet heard back from Y and L or any of the writers. The lesson, to teenagers everywhere: Your angst-drenched love letters are always yours now, like herpes. On the bright side, hopefully you are now old enough to find the humour in them. Yes, time is like Valtrex for the heart.
I learned my own lesson in humility the hard way. My shameful high school prose is all over the Internet because I was involved with an early iteration of online writing called Wired Writers.
In my writing I actually use the word “muah.”
When I meet new people I fear them Googling my name and henceforward treating me like a cornball because they don’t know how old the writing is. Gross. What’s even worse is all that bad writing caused my decrepit and married writing teacher to fall in lust with me and launch himself at me bodily in the corner of the library citing my “adult imagination.” Double gross. And what a nitwit. Bad memories all round.
But I’ve overcome it all by reclaiming the story and carving it into the neat little paragraph you just read. Besides, my problem is worse because it is public and the unnamed letter writers merely have a personal and exact reminder of a person and a time they probably blocked out.
But then again, who knows what T will do with his love letters. He was a heartbreaker, after all.
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