Damn You, David Petraeus and Paula Broadwell…

Guilty pleasures no more…

The demise of delightful diversions…

You have ruined it for all of us.

I hope you are happy…

Did we, in Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage, begrudge Lauren her lascivious longings, her blatant banter, her ubiquitous not-too-subtle subtext which energized many of her otherwise innocuous conversations?  I, for one, did not.  Although she may not be (or may be) my doppelganger, Broken Hallelujah‘s protagonist recognizes (as do I) the enlivening power of human desire.  And to that end, I embrace her…unequivocally and perhaps with the same ferocity with which Mary Shelley embraced her Frankenstein…

But unlike Lauren, my own and at this point unfortunate outlet has been deemed too dangerous–its doors have been slammed shut by those who took it too far (and who, apparently, set up way too many accounts).  I am, of course, talking about the judicious use of email to a salaciously satisfying end.

Wasn’t it only like yesterday (“yesterday” being the time BEFORE David Petraeus and Paula Broadwell screwed it up for the rest of us) that this innocent e-mail exchange occurred:

He:  “What are you wearing?”

Me:  “Something edible”

He:  “I haven’t had lunch yet, and my afternoon is wide open…”

Me:  “So am I…(kidding:)”

THAT WAS THEN; THIS, SADLY, IS NOW:

Me:  What are you doing?

He:

Me:  Are you there?

He:  I read in the Wall Street Journal that consumer spending is up a quarter of a percentage point…

Really?  Who gives a shit…

Thank you, dear reader, for listening to my lament; AND DAMN YOU, David P and Paula B, for making it necessary.

And, as for “He,” whoever you are, were, or might have been:

I MISS YOU IN MY INBOX…

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