People Don’t Grow on Trees Part 2 (Fanfic)
I was honestly planning on relaxing today, and as a little background information here, I have a lot of different projects I could be working on. Polishing up some stories I want to enter into upcoming contests/magazines. Hammering out the final edit of my novel. Getting back into the three books I’ve started. I even have a few unfinished Sudokus lying around.
So what did I do? I got this sudden urge to write my first fan fiction ever. What would it be? Not the Dexter/Breaking Bad crossover I have floating around in my head, but a follow-up to a real email I posted on my blog back in 2011 titled “People Don’t Grow on Trees”. I’ve now archived that email under the Humor Posts’ tab.
In short, a guy named Mike sent a crazy scary email (over 1,600 words long) to his date from the previous night, basically scolding her for leading him on by making eye-contact too many times. In fact, it was the most eye-contact any female had ever made with Mike, and he properly noted that in the email. If that doesn’t explain what I mean by “crazy scary”, you’ll fully understand after reading my fan fiction story (can it be called that since the original email is nonfiction?) which catches up with Mike as he tries to make a second attempt to contact Lauren.
I’m disappointed in you yet again. I’m currently sitting in your apartment, writing this to you in a Word document on your laptop. I will leave it open for your convenience. I will also add pictures, because not only am I the visual type, but as you know, I managed my family’s assets, and during that time, I became very good with Powerpoint. You do not have Powerpoint, so this message is in no way a reflection of my media skills.
My Word document will replace the YouTube video titled “Drunk Ron Weasley Sings Happy Birthday to Harry Potter” which was taking up your entire screen when I logged on. I X’ed out of it for you. You’re welcome. I’m guessing one of your friends insisted that you watch the video in question, because someone who enjoys the delightful sounds of the Philharmonic surely would cringe while listening to such tasteless noise.
The most peculiar thing happened, though—when I was searching through your Gmail, which you have set to automatically log you on (more on this later), I found no such evidence to suggest that a friend sent you the link to the video in question. You could have deleted it just like you deleted my first email to you. When I saw the letter, which took me close to two hours to write, in your trash bin, I lost a lot more respect for you. Fortunately for you, I have a lot of respect to give, and I can look past lapses in judgment.
For instance, I see you have a laptop. I have a laptop, too. Is it just me, or are personal computers as outdated as chivalry? If I were to hand you my dating resume, chivalry would be at the top of my listed attributes. My experience would range from the years 2001—present. That’s 12 years of experience. If this was a job interview, you would be unwise to not consider me in your top three candidates.
Enough about me though. I believe deep down inside, you know what you have sitting here in your uncomfortable computer chair with plastic armrests wrapped in tattered, fake leather. I earn a lot of money managing my family’s assets, as previously stated. Offers like this come maybe once in a lifetime, especially since I am very protective of women who are only in the field of dating to make a profit, but I am willing to buy you real leather armrests.
Please think this through logically. What are you scared of? Commitment? Marriage? Children? I must admit, my dating resume would surely have the above bulleted, maybe even highlighted (even though that is a big “no-no” when seeking a professional job), but I am willing to wait weeks, even months, before planning the rest of our lives together. Do note, I am undoubtedly a top candidate for planning. I do, remember, have to plan ahead when managing my family’s assets.
We will have to make some adjustments to your lifestyle. As I see by the empty packaging containers of TV dinners in your waste receptacle (among other things—please see below), I surely have my work cut out for me. I will allow this observation to remain off of the below list, for I understand that as a woman, you are struggling with the business side of life. My mother updated me on the struggles of women in the workforce. She, too, was an inspiring business woman. But then she and my father had serious discussions, and it was determined that her future seemed brighter as a stay-at-home woman (note—I was not born at this time). Perhaps in our future, we will come to the same conclusion.
Anyway, I will not hold your struggles against you, thus why that observation has been stricken from the list. No need to thank me. Remember, I am well-doused in chivalry.
After reading a fair portion of your Gmail, including but not limited to your inbox, many concerns have been raised. Which brings us to a list I compiled regarding my worries, and it is as follows:
—Home safety. Obviously, I am not sitting in a home. This is a small apartment with two problems in and of itself. The first being the clutter. I understand not having the funds to purchase more room, but I learned a good tip a very long time ago—live within your means. You are living slightly above your means, and this is causing your dressers to overflow, resulting in excess clothing spillage on your floor and in your closet. In your closet, there are several extremely thin underpants which I find very indecent. I understand you did not expect someone of my stature to enter your rented space, but do understand, what if it were not me? What if a burglar had entered? If these promiscuous underpants weren’t present, the burglar would (unless he defied all criminals odds) have taken your laptop, your watch from your mother in your nightstand, and that’s probably about it. Maybe your camera, but there is a lot of wear and tear on it. But with these underpants displayed on the floor, he surely would have lingered around, watching for you to return, fully expecting what those underpants imply—a good time. I think you can come to the understanding, as I have, that it would not have been, in fact, a “good time”. Please begin to live within your means.
Second—you obviously think a flimsy chain and a deadbolt will suffice in this part of town. Fact—it will not. But let us disregard that major oversight and get to the root of the problem here. Your window, which is attached to a fire escape, which I climbed to arrive here, has no locking mechanism. I simply opened the window and stepped inside. After I made a sandwich, I started compiling my list.
Before I forget, any electronic devices you own with the capability of connecting to the Intranet should be password protected, and beware of the password “password”, as hackers always try that one first.
You are extremely lucky that it is me sitting inside your apartment. Obviously I am doing you a favor here. People pay actual money for inspectors to find trouble spots in their homes, while I am here doing it for free. I am doing it for us. Perhaps this is an indication that you should move in with me until we find a place. It would seem rather pointless to fix everything broken with the apartment. I would rather you focus on fixing the things broken with your character. In the long run, doing so will make our future run so much more smoothly.
—Communication. You know this. I understand you are shy, but your eyes weren’t shy the other night during our date. I went to sleep that night, and all I saw in the darkness was your eyes staring at me. We simply have to work on you expressing your feelings in other ways than eye-flirting and leaving your underpants out in the open.
—Cats. After going through all of your computer files, I found many disturbing jpegs and gifs of cats. The problem is, I haven’t uncovered any evidence to suggest that a cat has ever lived here. No litter box. No tuna. You don’t even own any milk (is this a hint that you prefer breast-feeding, or perhaps you weren’t feeling up to traveling to the market?). Which leads me to believe that you prefer digital cats to living cats. I took a psychology class in college, and the psychologist inside of me is screaming that this potentially means you would prefer a cat, but you are not yet ready for the responsibly of cleaning a litter box, feeding it milk and randomly, sometimes in the middle of a night (like an infant), giving the living cat some TenderLovingCare (note how I wrote out TLC just in case you are unaware of its meaning).
—Will. I have yet to find a notarized living will anywhere. You will need to acquire one. I have one, leaving everything to our children.
There is more to this list, but I imagine you will be getting home any time now. When I was outside your building this morning, I saw you leave in a hurry with a travel bag. By my calculations, taking into account the inflation of living beyond your means, that bag should have lasted you an entire day—or until now, which is four minutes shy of midnight.
I believe I have supplied you with enough proof to warrant a second date, but if the evidence is not adequate or inconclusive, I am willing to drive home and print out my resume. Understand though that if I drive home, the armrest leather offer will be pulled from the table.
By the way, I am waiting for you inside your bedroom. There’s no lock, so please come in. You don’t need to knock.
Did I scare you?
I’m just joshing. Remember, chivalry. I am outside like a gentleman waiting inside the limo I rented. You don’t have to wear my mother’s red dress draped on top of your bed, but if you want to match me on our date, it would be a wise decision. Plus I think you owe it to me to prove that you’re willing to take on responsibility, and nothing would say that more than matching me in my formal attire.
I look forward to seeing you soon. Hopefully you can get ready for tonight as fast as you did this morning.
PS—Me again. I came back inside after waiting for over an hour. It’s now after 1am. I’m very worried. Where are you? Is this what it will be like when our children are teenagers? Will we both be together, wondering where Billy and Ted are? Was there an accident? Was anyone hurt? Was alcohol involved? We’ll have to start talking about these issues soon so we can give our children the right tools to make the correct decisions.
PSS—Someone called the police…
…and they are pounding on the front door. Apparently the deadbolt and chain are working properly, so I apologize for suggesting you goofed that part up. Do you have outstanding traffic tickets I should know about? I found your parents’ address (We need to get you a rolodex). I’m going to rush down the fire escape and hurry over there, pushing the speed limit (of course), and try to figure out, along with your parents, where you’ve gone. Hopefully I will find you soon.
Love (Because I think I’ve fallen for you),
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