Mission Two
Tuesday, September 16th, 2003
Mission Two
A Dom Entry
Well, Bill wasn't too bent about getting his birthday card late after all. And, on a coincidence, I wasn't so bent that it wasn't from his wife. What's more, I'm grinning immensely due to the fact that Billy doesn't even have a wife - not even in Scotland. Whatever this means for me is still up for grabs. I seriously don't know what I'm about with Bill. I feel like maybe I'm just fooling around with my own emotions, and I want him to play along. And, anyway, it's been so long since I've even looked at someone the way I look at Bill. Okay, so it has been relatively long.
Every time I look at him, I feel that much closer to him. Considering this, I've been surprisingly sparse with my signals. I don't want to come off as flirting. You know, it's just different with Bill. I want to be his friend; the other end of his conversation. But at the same bloody time I want to try to find something more. If I can only find out if there could be something there, maybe I could just rest easy. Hell, I don't even know if he goes for blokes.
But I have come up with something of a test. I'm hoping it'll calm both my conserved and playful urges. Actually, that's a lie. It will only make my playful urges worse. But I'm going to do it anyway.
While talking with Bill, he mentioned that he didn't get much personal mail. First, as a friend, I was concerned - (oh, you poor thing!). Then, as a devious arse, I was peaked with intrigue. Why shouldn't Bill get personal mail? And why shouldn't I be the one to give it to him?
So, I was thinking... Who's ever heard of secret admirers? Right, and how many people have actually had one? Exactly, none. But wouldn't it be a treat for Bill to have one? Yes, I'm jumping right now. I think I'm breaching the line between insanity and genius. But I also think it will work. See, if I write Billy anonymous letters, I'll not only be able to send a couple of those signals I've been saving, but I'll be able to see his reaction to them as well. After all, aren't I the postman? And his friend? I'll hand him the letters, completely unaware of their subject matter, he'll read them, confide in me about them, and sooner or later confess his, (perhaps minute, but they still count), feelings for his mysterious admirer. And then somewhere in there I'll come out with the truth. But I don't really have to think about that for a while yet. It's already out of my mind.
I just have to think of a letter... I figure I'll write them at the post office on one of the old typewriters, (yes, they still exist), and then just deliver them with the rest of his mail as usual. I suppose the hardest part will be keeping a straight face about it. But I figure if I can last in a house without running water for three days, I can do basically anything. In short, the plan is fool-proof.
So about that first letter...
Starting out with a poem may be too much. As nice as it would be if I were an educated poet, it wouldn't be because I'm not. And I only ever accomplish limericks and haikus. Such a disaster would go somehow as follows:
There once was a man from Great Britain,
Who owned a most murderous kitten,
He read many books,
And had such good looks,
That I, to be frank, was quite smitten.
I won't even attempt the haiku.
Man, I really need a creative muse.
And food. Do you ever just dead-out forget to go to the market? Yeah, you know, it's one of those things. Like starvation.
Personal Note: Go to the market, sod, and don't flirt with the cashier. Also, why haven't you been to the pub yet?
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