Email Draft #1:
I trip out thinking about the shit you guys never had to negotiate, getting married at 22. Like: the girl I’m seeing said that she’d be into swinging and this depressed me. Invalidated this whole fantasy I’ve been entertaining. That feeling: like finding out the skyscraper you just built is perched atop a sinkhole. Swinging is the sort of whorish behavior that your peers probably got electroshocked for in 1963. In 2015 your only recourse is feigning excited curiosity. You have to have an answer prepared for when a girl asks if you happen to own furry handcuffs.
Other than playing whack-a-mole with my insecurities I’ve been doing the writing thing on the world wide web. This is not a thing you get paid for unless you want to jizz out clickbait for Herst Corporation about exercise myths. You can get “likes” though. Which are a pretty crazy thing: they are the only thing in the universe that feel good for less than a second.
What else. Well there’s always work. And I do mean always. And there’s drinking with other casual alcoholics who are also desperately unfulfilled. Oh, and I got a big laugh with them the other day: I remember once you said that you got a good job by walking into a big building and asking the girl at the desk if they were hiring (they always were) and you recommended I try doing the same. Also you said that your first savings account paid 15% interest. 1958: what a time to be alive. God, the banks have really turned into cunts in the interim period.
Anyway, I miss you guys.
*delete delete delete*