You are quite frankly a failure of a friend. It is often said that absence does wonders for the heart, and that a lack of communication isn't necessarily equal to the death of a relationship, but five months without so much as a tweet is nothing but negligent. The frequency with which I speak to you is perfectly disgraceful. It's almost as bad as the frequency with which you speak to me.
What's been going on with you? Are you seeing anyone? Also, I'm still in possession of the pocket flask you made great use of the last time I saw you in the flesh. We were at some infernal dinner and you were convinced that its repeated use was the cure for your bad temper that night, only that it wasn't. I don't mind keeping it. In your absence it's become my greatest companion and temptation. Everytime I think about it I wonder why I'm neither drunk nor on my way there. It's the worst sort of peer pressure because I haven't the good fortune to be delusional enough to believe that the pressure is even remotely external. You must either rid me of the hellish thing or celebrate my budding alcoholism.
Walk the Moon is great,
I remember the night well. It was the squash dinner, and while I had a great time at the expense of everyone else in attendance, I also discovered that whiskey is not to be mixed with Vindaloos. My trip to the toilet the following morning was both explosive and excruciating. I apologise for any discomfort I caused as a result of subsequent issues with your plumbing. And many thanks for taking me home that night. If you hadn't, I'm quite sure that I would have waged battle with the nearest dustbin. As for the pocket flask, send it to me by return of post. As things stand I'm better equipped to deal with its allure than you are. And it's only in this fashion that we'll achieve true brotherhood. We'll be the brotherhood of the traveling flask.
I'll admit to a certain lack of diligence with regards to our affairs, but it is exceedingly vulgar to berate me like a judge when you are not in fact a judge. Be that as it may, I shall answer all your questions as the third item of our friendship contract requires (If you are so fortunate as to be asked a question by Gil the big ideal, you must answer in great detail, leaving absolutely nothing out).
I haven't been up to much. My inactivity can be blamed on a recent bout of anthropophobia and agoraphobia coupled with sprinkling of the flu and an onslaught of malaria. I also withdrew a bit so that I could write the GRE's without being embarrassed by my lack of proficiency. If you're looking to do that exam, I'll recommend being sicker than a bitch in heat. Nothing clears the mind like illness. You either focus on your own mortality or the task at hand, and it shouldn't surprise you that I chose the latter and not the former.
Am I seeing anyone? This is a question for the gods. After languishing in the sea of my own singleness, I decided that it was time to change. As a maverick, I didn't want to do things the traditional way so I joined Tinder, and it's been revolutionary. I am now convinced that I am not good looking enough to not be single. The number of people that swipe right on me is astonishingly low, and even when I think I'm settling, the people I think I'm settling for still don't find me attractive. And I've been out of the game so long that my game has quite literally turned to shit. Look at these conversations Gil! Look at them!
I have no words for how bad they are. I only hope that a good talking to from you will set my head straight, and forcefully remove the rust from my game. But that's enough about me. How about you? The last time I checked you were getting married. Have you eloped yet?
ps. We talk when we're supposed to; not a moment before and not a moment after.
Always in this twilight,
I don't think it's that bad actually. You're displaying some wit, some humour and trace amounts of charm. Furthermore you've avoided some of the more terrifying tinder tropes. You haven't yet started a conversation with the completely debauched, "Do you want to fuck?" Don't lose sight of the tail so easily. Keep the banter coming, and you'll get more than you would with just a pretty face. What's your Tinder picture? You're not at at all bad looking, so I'm a bit surprised that you're not getting swiped at like a drowning man clutches at straws, but knowing you, you've chosen a picture where you look like a sex offender or a cannibal.
I'm no longer engaged. I have no idea what I was thinking. I believed that I'd stumbled on that thing we call love at first sight. I proposed after a week, and found that I had thrown my hand in with a gorgon. I've never met a gorgon but if the mythical monster does exist, I'm certain that she's a direct descendant. In our second week together would you believe that she made me a sandwich with pickles? The inclusion of the pickles convinced me that if I eloped with her I'd end up dead. I terminated our relations then and there. I think this may have something to do with why I've become so attached to your pocket flask. When I send it back to you I shall go back on the hunt. I'll do things the right way this time. 50 dates before I invite her over, 2 years before I let her make me a sandwich. 3 holidays before I refer to us as a thing, and 6 years before I let her do my laundry. My adventures in the world of womandom have shown me that we can never be too careful lest we get forcefed pickles and turn to the toilet only to find that it's been invaded by baskets of potpourri.
Don't stay up all night to get lucky. You'll be tired in the morning.
You did the right thing. Anyone that would feed you pickles clearly doesn't have your best interests at heart.
This is the picture I've been using. I think it's quite good. I'm even wearing a watch! I know that you're bound to disagree. You'll say that my thigh gap is frightening, and that it gives the impression that I spent my formative years sitting on a fence, and as a result anyone that looked at the picture would believe that I was indecisive. You would also say that my smile was inappropriate because women don't want a happy man, they want a serious man who looks like he knows how to put Loubs on the table. After you say those things, I'll be offended and I won't talk to you for a year, so let's quit while we're ahead shall we?
If I could find a way to see this straight I'd probably run away.