Yo. Maryann? You wrote this when you were drunk.

Dear FutureMe, It's 1 in the afternoon, but your hip hurts so you mixed Hawiian Iced Tea and Vodka. Your mIRC window is flashing and your fantsy role playing freinds think that you are lying down, but you heard this site featured on NPR and you, in your drunken state, thought it was a fab idea. FAB, I tell you. You are still scared about working in the Phone Sex industry despite your mother's blessings (assuming, of course, that your hands are busy making art to sell on eBay while you moan your way to a living) and you're currently peeved at some 15-year-old who goes by the handle 'Chaya' who thinks you're a Nazi, a drunk, and an all around evil no-good-nik. Ruhn in aslo giving you a headache with her 'holier-than-thou' act, and you have a slight crush on Tavvy despite never having met him in real life. Why so obsessed with the online world? Because your Seattle life hardly exists. You invited Kim, the girl in #408, to go with you to the Arboretum but she already had plans to do the Underground Tour. Have you done either yet? Because you wanted to do both, but your hip hurt too much. Granted, when you sober up, you will think to yourself that your hip didn't actually hurt so much..... but it does. Trust me. You blame yourself from being fired from Pemco because of your hip.... because you missed so many days. It hurt. Honestly. It. Fucking. Hurt. I hope you're not still beating yourself up over that. You also miss Fuzzy. Terribly. Perhaps that;s why you bonded with Tavvy. He yelled the nice and reassuring things at you that Fuzzy used to do. That you're worth something even if you're not being clever. That you're quite simply amazing. That your father is WRONG. What he did to you is WRONG. Naming you after that girl who he wanted to bang, but wouldn't have anything to do with him because she was being raped by her father? WRONG-WRONG-WRONG-WRONG-WRONG. And Shameful! SHAME. Shame transcends "wrongness" to you somehow. It digs deeper. You can do bad things and still be a good person. You cannot be a good person with shame. You ahave captured the hearts of.... well.... dozens. Not millions. Maaaaayyyybe a couple hundred. There are a great deal of people infatuated with you, and you view yourself as some kind of Muse-- inspiring many but ultimately feeling that she has been denied her own person who is worth creating art over. Do you love yourself? Yeah. Alot. Sometimes. And then you hate yourself. Alot. You also don't feel so much in-sync with your cat. Remember Sheba? Maybe she's dead by the time you read this.... dead and making your bed shake like Sam did for so long after he died. Esme is a lovely girl, and you feel guilty doting upon animals in your interactive storytelling group while she whines at you to pet her. I really hope that you've found a nice balance. Because she's a good cat. Abused and forgotten..... but she loves you. Remeber how much Helen, her previous owner, squealed when you told her little things like "Oh, she meows at me?" and "She sleeps in my bed-- only at the foot of it though?" She never did that when she was in a house with Two dogs and several other cats. You're tempted to get another cat because Esme disappears during the hours of noon 'till midnight, but you're scared to hurt her. You're also terribly lonely. You try to visualise the perfect man in an effort to make him manifest before you, much in the tradition of the inspirational tapes that you heard during milk runs with Aunt Nancy, but it doesn't work if you don't get out of the house it doesn't work. Men don't come to your door like pizza does. You need to get out. Even if it's just for coffee. You're also still bitter about your father. Is the fucker dead yet? He's had cancer forever. And he's still an ass, Christ forgiven him and all. Still. An. Ass. You called your mother for comfort and all he wanted to know was if you needed money. You did. He sent you $200 via Paypal.... the equivalent of a nice tip for him.... which means that in a way he cares about you..... but in another way he didn't ask anything to your face about ANYTHING. You only heard his voice on the other line yelling "Does she need money again???". Does this betray love, or does it betray that he sees you as a burden for whom he can 'save'? And yes. I'm still drunk, Maryann. You are delighted and astonished by your art. Things flow from your fingertips like water from a spout, pure and perfect. Though you're reluctant to admit it, you do character sketches for your nerdy kid-freinds in #RDI and more often than not they are utterly blown away. They spend 20 minutes chatting with you, and you magically produce a character sketch that encapsulates every vanity and indulgence they allowed themselves in making a vampire-dragon-elf-assasin-whatever.... you're drawing dreams, Maryann. You're an art-whore. And it makes people SO happy. Makes them feel understood. Flattered. You hope that Phone sex gives you a similar thrill, because using your innate talent for tapping into emotion made you feel dirty at Pemco. They made you lie. Daily. And people hated those lies. As soon as you trasferred them, they would hear another lie and their accounts would still be fucked up. It darkened your soul. Have you succeeded in having an out-of-body experience yet? Yesterday, Maryann, you had something awfully close. And you tasted blood in your mouth. Esme let you hold her for what seemed like ages while you scared yourself silly, licking your finger to see if blood was actually there. But Esme was a good sport. She's a good kitty. You still keeping in touch with Dan, Laua's brother? He loves you too. That's a person who would take a bullet for you. And he's sat with you for.... maybe..... a total of 48 hours? You're just that intoxicating. Speaking of intoxicating, you happen to be the victim of vodka right now. The glass is empty and you feel like singing a sad and slow Jason Webley ballad right now, but the you in your past is going to go back to bed and possibly review "Shoes and Pattens" (again) and contemplate buying power tools and selling them to your SCA freinds who slog through the mud. You were so clever to pick the 12th century to research, weren't you? Remeber in Canada where you practically walked on muddy water while your norse freinds got their hems muddy? That's what you do, Maryann. You walk on muddy water. It would seem like a miracle, aside from the fact that you did hours of research to get to that point. But it seemed fun at the time, so you didn't notice the work involved. But to everyone else? Baby, you seem like a supernatural phenomenon. They've told you so. Remember me, Scaryann