Open Letter to Yahoo instant messenger users

Dear Users of Yahoo,

I pride myself on being cordial to each and every person who bothers to take the time to read my inane yahoo profile page. I welcome you all with a mindless biographical sketch of formalities and geographies, history and the occasional feigned interest in your ex-girlfriend disasters. I’m flattered you’ve taken an interest in what I have to say, if, in fact, you have. But I fear most of you take one glance at the picture, the rather crap picture, and decide to strike up a conversation. You know what, you’re not the first. I’m used to it, it’s fine…go ahead. But if you proceed to ask me questions previously answered in my profile, I will not respond. If you tell me you love me, before you ask my name, I’ll ignore you. If you’re opening line involves any combination of the words, sex, kitten, leather, porn, slave, bondage or John Tesh, I’d like to say I’ll ignore you, but I’m usually too nice. But be forewarned…I’ll pretend I’m enjoying your online flirtations, which for you are late night, drunken fumblings with a keyboard, but are, oddly and disgustingly enough, my morning coffee sessions, spent passing the hours at work…with children…and fifty other coworkers surrounding me…so watch your language. Your every move will receive a lame response along the lines of, okay, fine, alright. I do not flirt online. Especially if you’re a married, bi-curious female with a name like Bambi to make up for your severe lack of mental acuity and disturbingly obscene halitosis. Furthermore, “slave to the man” is an expression. Have you not heard it? Weird. But yes, an expression. It does not mean that I am literally a slave, or that I am willing to be your slave, or that I prefer to be submissive. In fact, if you dare utter the word submissive in my presence, or type, in this case, I will have no qualms about posting your MasterCard number all over the internet for Bunny McIntosh and Ebay fanatics alike to devour. What makes you think a nearing twenty-three year old would ever be remotely interested in flying to Australia, on her own dime, to visit a perverse, fifty-three year old whack-job with an obsession for making “home” videos? Some final words of advice: Don’t ask for my number if I’ve likened you to Kim Jong-il. Don’t offer to send me a vibrator in the mail…that’s just a recipe for disaster, and presumptuous I might add. Don’t bother with spell check. When every other sentence is grammatically incorrect, you replace the word ‘you’ with ‘u’ and ‘your’ with ’ur’, there is no need for academic formalities. Don’t tell me you taught yourself Spanish using tape cassettes seven years ago in your gram's dingy basement and then correct my Spanish structure, learned from ten years of rigorous study and intensive language immersion programs in both Spain and Mexico. Don’t belittle my university education as superfluous, you're a plumber for fuck's sake. Don’t send me naked pictures of yourself, or your mother, or even your dog for that matter...I just don't care. Don’t feign knowledge of that which you don’t know. I understand the practices of bullshit, I excel, so don’t try to pawn it off as serious discussion or some moral truth. And finally, don’t fucking BUZZ me. There is a reason I’m not responding to your query as to whether or not I feel reciprocally amorous towards you Kim Jong-il, and it’s because I could never love a dictator named Kim who can't even succeed at RISK, let alone world domination.

Cheers!
Lauren