I invited a woman to go to lunch with me. A date of all things. She accepted and in an email back to me wrote, “So, guess what? I ran into a tree last night [while running]. I look like a total retard with a big scratch on my forehead.”
My response is below:
You ran into a tree? You have a giant scratch and now you’re retarded?
Hm…
I’m now rethinking this whole “lunch/relationship with D.” thing now. Maybe I don’t want to be seen in public with a retarded scratchy faced monster after all. True, I don’t really have anything else to do tomorrow, but having people stare at me and wonder what’s so wrong with me that I’d stoop so low as to be seen with the likes of what you’ve become, a severely wounded and disfigured mental deficient who thinks she can just bowl her way through a forest with zero concern for the surrounding flora. Did you even stop to look and see how the tree was doing after you stomped all over it, heartless thug that you are? No, I bet you just picked yourself up and kept running, leaving that poor traumatized and broken twig of a tree to fend for itself in the cold, hard night.
Plus, if you have open wounds on your face, I’m not sure I want to date you at all until they heal. Are they oozing? With super stinky pus coming out? Yucksville. I’m not down for that, babe. Like I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m a very shallow person and am only interested in you because you’re stunningly sexy and super pleasant to look at. If that’s not the case anymore, I’d like to wait and see if there’s any permanent scarring. Let’s hold off on lunch for now, OK? Please send me an UN-RETOUCHED head shot in a couple of weeks and we’ll see where we are, agreed? Go ahead and have a professional take the photo, but I’m a graphics professional as well, and I’ll know if there’s been any Photoshop trickery, so don’t try and be clever and think you’ll fool me. Though I probably have little to fear in that regard since now that you’re a “total retard,” cleverness probably isn’t your strong suit.
In the meantime, I’ve contacted the National Arbor Preservation Society (NAPS), about what happened between you and the tree. Some investigators from the NAPS home office in Tillamook, Oregon should show up shortly to ask you some questions. Answer truthfully and express sincere regret and they may let you off with just a warning. Say the wrong thing or mention even one word about your penchant for wood burning stoves and there’s no telling what may happen. You could end up getting the “splinter treatment” and honey, trust me on this, you do not want that.
OK, while I was writing this I see that you’ve sent me a blurry shot of the despair that is now your face. While the low resolution of your crappy phone camera helps to hide the destruction, it’s obvious that not only do you need extended and multiple rounds of a procedures by a world class team of plastic surgeons, but it’s probably best to turn to prayer to help with devastation of your face. I shudder to imagine what that poor tree looks like now. I can only hope for your sake that the NAPS people are in a good mood when they get to you.
Such a shame… You were so pretty, too.
Best of luck to you in the future!
—jon
