"Way to go, Chad. Nailed it." The most embarrassing email I have ever wanted to retract.

Hi _____,

** Note: I keep re-reading this, and it gets more convoluted each time. I realize I say a lot of dumb, rambling things, make some outrageous statements and whatnot, and yet, rather than going back and retracting or editing them, I just keep adding to them. I figured I would take you along on a little mental journey with me. You’re up for that, right? Ha ha ha. I don’t know if anyone is, really. It's not the easiest trail to follow, and I get lost on it myself.**

***It gets kind of ranty in places, be forewarned. I realize this, and yet I am loath to snip it. I don’t know why that is. Dumb, I guess.***

****Not to disqualify, or conversely, justify or excuse any of my statements herein, or my behavior over the last week or two or ten, for that matter, but to provide perhaps relevant context: I have been undergoing medication changes that affect my decision making process, possibly not for the better. Beyond that, what can I say? I am only human, and that is the only excuse I can come up with.****

Beginning of actual text:

I know it hasn’t been more than a day or two, and I still want to give you plenty of space. But I did also want to speak to you (or at you, since you aren’t here at the moment) so that’s why I decided to write an email instead, entitled: “Do not open until ready!”  Whenever that is, you can decide.
 

So read no further, if you do not wish to do so at this time. And don’t feel the need to respond instantly, or at all. All in your own time, if you so please.

 

I want to address, without much introduction, a thing or two that I feel might be salient to what has occurred as things have unfolded in the last few weeks, and maybe before that, the exact length of time of which I’m not certain.

***** This next lengthy bit just seems like a very long rant, diatribe or manifesto, some sort of election campaign pamphlet promoting mesophilia, or gerontophilia, as the case may be. (I had to learn those terms myself for this occasion.) I didn’t intentionally set out to do that, and I don't know why I honed in so specifically on that subject, but being both a rambler and a fixator, once I got started, well, you know how that goes. And the point might be moot, were it not a primary concern of yours. You did mention it a few times in the past, so I’m just addressing the geriatric elephant in the room.*****

I’m trying to say this next bit without sounding judgy. I hope I don’t come off that way. I apologize if I do. It’s not my intent to impugn you with guilt of any kind. Not at all.

I think that some of the things you did, whether subconscious or overtly intentional, were pretty much designed to work as they did. 1000 selfies, all beautiful, all revealing of your lovely self. "Selfie" is as the name implies, but your selfies were not self-ish. Your selfies were another warm and, yes, enticing gift that you shared with me. How could I not like and fall for them…and you?

And all your wonderful comments to me, undeserved praises from your lips. I won’t speak of those lips now, however obsessed with them I may be, given the current crisis in the Middle East—and Middle West.

And of course, the playlist. That lovely, inspired, heartfelt playlist. <sigh>

I’m not a person that believes or even implies the notion that a girl was "asking for it, by the way she was dressed,” or any such derivative, even in cases where a female dresses, to use an anachronistic and potentially loaded word: “provocatively.” I think a woman has the right to dress in whatever way she chooses. If it makes her happy, it makes me happy. It doesn’t give me the right to get happy all over her, you know, humping her leg like a puppy dog.

And as the woman has, so do I have the right to my own preferences in the matter. We need not go into all that now, but I believe in freedom of speech, freedom of the press and freedom of opinion as to the articles of women’s clothing that I may or may not appreciate, as guaranteed by the constitution, fascist fashion Gestapo be damned.

However—and I may be biased, or sexist even, for having preferences at all, but—

“Damn, girl, you look gooood in a dress!“

I can say this about my own inclinations and reactions toward the aforementioned: “It may be wrong, but it is only natural.”

People do what they do—or don’t do—for reasons of their own choosing (or some biological imperative, but that's a whole other area). I don’t find myself in disagreement with any of it, unless it is illegal. Morality is a different matter. I have vague and shifting ideas in that arena, subject to context and circumstance, with few absolutes in the equation.

But, let’s say, for example, in the case of time travel: Let’s not go back to when you were 12 <sliding scale of mathematics> and I was the whatever-age old-ass guy I would’ve been at the time. No. Creepy. Wrong.

Current age and configuration, not wrong. Perhaps chronologically strained would be a better term. Unconventional, sure. Not altogether rare, but not exactly the norm. Nothing DSM5 worthy, so not deviant in that sense. Not that I shy away from that moniker, ha.

People are free to be creeped out and judge as they see fit. I don’t have to necessarily react to their perceptions or base my life around them. I can just be me and do what I want to do, and screw what everyone thinks, present company excluded. I care very much what you think.

Mathematical factoid: 58 - 29 = 29. I have no idea what that means or if it has any significance at all. It is a symmetrical intersection in time. I just noticed how it looked when I was figuring out on a calculator just how much older than you I am. An entire you’s worth. Literally, “A girl half my age.” I can hear all the comments in my head right now. The talk of the town.

But evolutionarily speaking, wouldn’t it be of significant benefit to the species, having the specimens of female eggs for procreation be in their prime, thus ensuring the survival of lineage for older males who, at their advanced age, still had no progeny? <Stranglovian diabolical German accent>  I’m not saying that’s my motivation, but it seems to justify, even call for it, from a certain standpoint. It is a dynamic that has been normalized, even traditionalized, although still perhaps looked down upon as taboo from some perspectives, one of them being the whole time travel thing. That just makes it weird.

But current versions, I say, if it goes, it goes. Why not? Let the train take you where it will. The looo-ve train. Ha ha, ha ha ha. Well, that’s my take. Not really a surprise that it would be, ya think?

Oh, and the answer to the math question is: 41. That’s how old the creepy guy in the van would have been, looking out at 12 year old you. This is what makes time travel a bit sticky in this department. What about a 29 year old me, standing over your crib, saying, “Ah, perfect! And now…we wait!” How long would that me have to wait before the ick factor depleted itself?

The age gap between us can never go away in this lifetime, but by some algorithm of acceptability, say I’m 129 and you are a scant 100, or 1029 and 1000, respectively, it doesn’t seem so significant past a certain point, perhaps.

I would love to know what a 12-year-old me would do with a 12-year-old _____. I think we would still be besties. I can do that, you know. It's not time travel, exactly. It's more of an age-adjusted mental version, simply imagining how I might have felt, had I known you when I was 12.

I don’t know too much about you at that age, other than a couple of pictures, your awesome________ magazine, your drawings, and other memories and things from that time which you have shared with me, but I can picture you thinking and talking pretty much the way you do now, only in a tiny concentrated form. And I would be looking at you through the lens of my 12-year-old brain. I was pretty timid then, introverted, a book reader. I feel like you were that way too, and for that reason alone, I think we would’ve clicked, had we overcome our natural awkwardness and actually approached one another.

For whatever reason, I feel like our souls click pretty well on a lot of things. (I don’t have an ethical problem with any of it, on any level, but that’s just me, of course. Your mileage may vary.) But as far as the soul-clickage goes, I fully feel that with you all the time.

“Pea, meet other pea.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Pea! Nice to be sharing a pod with you!”

I mean, one of the peas could get pissy and leave the pod, I suppose, but there’s always going to be that legume connection, linking them forever and all time. So you’re not going to get away from me that easily, my little pea! And I don’t suppose I’ll be getting away from you either. At least, not intentionally. I’m not actively trying to escape. I’m playing hard to get. Can you tell? Yeah, OK, not so much.

16 year old me and 16 year old you. My goodness. What would that have been like? It was a good year for me. There’s that relative term again, “good.” Even though it was the best of times for me, it would probably not have been a place where our paths should’ve crossed, necessarily. Being the big ‘ol  boyslut that I was, I might have not made a very good impression upon you.

Maybe, had the 12-year-old you and 12-year-old I become friends, who knows how it would’ve altered the course of my life? I never knew any girls until about the age of sixteen, and then, suddenly, I knew a lot of them all at once.
 
I didn’t have clear long range vision at that time. I might’ve passed you up because my eyes were focused on sparkly things that were more easily obtainable. I sense that you wouldn’t have been “easy,” and as a hormone driven teenager, I did not have that kind of patience. Then again, I didn't know you at that time, so who knows. I've changed a lot since I've met you, even at this age. You seem capable of having a profound effect on me, for better or worse. Better, I'd say.

As an older gentleman, I can appreciate “not easy.” Things easily obtainable are most often of lesser quality, whereas the unique, the weird, the rare and often unobtainable, are much sought after and of higher value, in my estimation. You are that timeless gem, the impossible find, right in front of my eyes.

Understand this, I beg your indulgence, and please do not dispute me on the matter: I don’t feel that it is wrong or inappropriate for me to enjoy what I see. And if what I happen to see is you, in close proximity to me, because, you know, I want to get a good look, so much the better!

And as for you, I don’t believe it is wrong for you to show off what you’ve got. If you are honey, you are obviously going to be pretty tantalizing. But what are you gonna do? You’re honey. Are you going to try to change the basic nature of honey in order to make it less alluring? Good luck with that, sweetie. You look good ruffled, frumpled, tousled and mussed, with your head on the pillow and one eye open. I actually probably have a picture or two just like that. Still you. Still beautiful.

Let the bears beware: there may be bees! Whether they be bees in bonnets or the regular kind: Honey seekers, proceed with caution!

In that regard, I know I have been speaking quite un-cautiously. But since things got opened up, duct-taped cans of worms, specifically, I just figured this needed to be talked about to some degree. I really don’t know all your thoughts on the complexities of this matter, and perhaps you haven’t got them all figured out yet either. That’s OK. But I believe you and I can and should be able to talk about any subject. Whether or not we agree on everything is another matter, but we should be able to talk about difficult things and still remain friends.

Hmm, I believe I’ve exhausted this one area, but just this one. Plenty of other things to be talked about, and plenty of time left in our lifetime to do so, but I don’t want to write you a 32-page letter. I mean, I do, but I would want it to come out better than this.

Say, that’s a thought. We can always be pen pals. Forever and ever, however far you may go, wherever your travels take you, astral or otherwise. <wink wink>
 
I’m a silly boy, and I should stop saying silly things. But for the moment, I don’t care, since a moment is what we are having. Separate moments, I guess technically, but you’re still my best friend, and I have to keep you up-to-date on where I’m at and whatever. You’re still a part of my life, no matter what, _____. That is, if you are still so inclined. I never want to presume to speak for you, so tell me if you ever catch me doing that.

Guess I should be wrapping this up about now. Ha ha. Write back whenever, if you feel like it. Or call. Or text. Or invite me over to Sunday dinner or afternoon tea. I mean, not necessarily this Sunday. I haven’t really thought that far ahead. But you know, like, a conceptual Sunday.

I still love you bunches, kiddo, girl, young lady, woman — (Ha ha. That last one sounds funny even just coming out of my mouth) —  whatever you'd like to be called: I love you, love you, love you, love you!

A

Quantum math question: In how many parallel universes do we share a connection?
Answer: All of them. It's a trick question, actually. Although apparently separate and distinct, all universes -- parallel or otherwise -- overlap, intersect or are in some way connected, hence, you and I, as intrinsically connected parts of that whole, share a connection.

Other question: Having written, re-read, edited, re-read, approved, deleted and otherwise questioned all of the above, will I ever actually press send?
Answer: I guess if you are reading this, um, dumb question. 1,2,3...<send>  

<nope>
<chickened out>

<OK--NOW!>
<nope>

<thought about it, decided, fuck it>
<here goes...>

----

That's it. I begged my friend to delete the email, wishing to forever scrub it from her (and my) memory. I don't like my tone, my message, delivery -- everything. Ominously, she said she needed to hold onto it for the time being, but that she'd give my request some consideration, taking into account context and other factors involved.

Was it me that wrote it? Yes, regrettably, it was. Even in the context of medication induced mania, coupled with cannabis and caffeine enhanced stupidity, whatever you want to call it, it was still me who composed it, revised and edited it, and eventually hit send. I  wrote it. 

Why would I post it here? Why do I post anything here, if not to embarrass myself fully, to reveal what's lurking under my veneer of acceptability? 

When I say I'm horrible, it's not that I am saying I want that to be true. Like everyone, I would want the benefit of the doubt, to believe "innocent until proven guilty," telling people, "I'm fine. How are you?" no one ever questioning the insincerity, the duplicity behind the smile of social convention.

But it doesn't work that way. 

This particular slice of who I am contains some unpalatable toppings, to be sure. The sauce is off, the cheese is rancid, and even the crust is suspect. However, the incompetent, inept, foolish man who wrote that email shares the same brain as the one who <struggling to find some complementary positive attributes> sometimes tries to do good things for other people, the one who animals like and babies find fascinating. 

I'm going to have a hard time seeing the good aspects of myself for a long time, especially -- especially, if I lose my friend altogether over this. But I can't get past this without first acknowledging it fully. I need to confess my sins, not just vaguely hint at their existence.

And for some of what I wrote -- I don't even know exactly how much myself -- I would make no apology. Not for feeling it, not for revealing it, only for the way it made my friend feel. For that, I would apologize a thousand times over. 

If I had it all to do over right now, with hindsight, or even without, I know I would not send that email. If I were to write anything at all, which wisdom dictates that I probably should not, it would be vastly different.

One cannot erase the past. The most we can do is to make amends and try to move forward, taking with us (grumble, grumble) lessons to help us not make the same mistakes in the future. Given my great track record, however, chances of me not making similar if not the exact same mistakes in the future are exceedingly slim. 

The arc of the moral universe is long, and I'm not sure our instruments can detect if, or in which direction, it really bends. Actually, the presupposition that the universe is moral at all would seem to be a matter of faith. 

In that regard, I beg any of those who are so inclined, to pray for the soul of this pitiable fool. I sure could use it. I don't seem to be cognitive therapying my way out of this one.