A girl in pink underwear emailed me today. I don't know what she wants from me or why she's here. The latest form of advertising? This is my underwear, and it could all be yours if the price is right? Not money of course, but money is cheap compared to other prices we pay in life for things. Things we want. Things that want us. There it is, leaping off the pages of MySpace at hours when not even the Gods themselves are awake enough to know what anyone is doing or why, and throbbing against my semi-conscious, alcohol-withered mind like a Jehovah's Witness banging at my door, selling something they are calling 'truth'.... an enigma of Pink.
Pink, like an explosion of relentless bubble gum, a cacaphony of misunderstood cotton candy, like even itself is unaware that it isn't good for you. And she wants to get to know me, as if people haven't been trying for 30 years and she is going to be the one in her rosy, angelic super-hero costume to fly into that strange void of mine where logic and gravity cease to exist and what then, but she's 'not looking for anything serious ...' Serious, like logging on to the eBay of my existance, searching the multithreaded webs of dreams and hopes, love and pain, beauty and shame, and the blog of my life would be serious? But there she is ....pink...
Pink cotton against nutty brown skin leaping off the screen in a swirl of maybe ...a clash of perhaps. I pause to think how many other people this letter went out to, maybe a hopeful love chain letter wrapped in undergarments. As if, no one in the world would rather see a picture of her and her dog, playing the cello, and driving in the Grand Prix. But maybe she's more like me than I think, lonely and afraid, thinking that one day these pictures will be all that's left of everything I've been and said, thinking this could all end tomorrow if I cross the wrong street or eat slightly uncooked poultry.
I look out the window, and the sun is coming up. That time when the creatures of darkness scatter and scurry away in a terror of being seen for who they are instead of what they would like to be. Cinderella's glass slipper falls off as her pumpkin chariot flies over a cliff. I stare at the the reply button one last time, and click on the little x instead. It goes away, but the sun is rising like it does every morning. I think about how I don't see it rise much these days, beautiful colors gracing the skies, including shades of pink ....
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