YOU HAVE 2 NEW E-MAILS!
His eyelids flickered as he guided his cursor over to the button on the screen. One turned up to be a Pornado. Nude images of men on women, women on men, men on men, women on women, and men on sheep barraged his computer monitor. Lazily, he deleted that one, and exited the numerous pop-ups. He bit on the cigarette filter gently, just enough to take a drag. Eh, stupid filtered cigarettes. Filtered were for pussies.
The second e-mail was from that ridiculous dating site.
MEET NEW MEMBERS!
Anachronistic Darling
Age: 29
Gender: Female
Field of Business: Real Estate
Yearly Income: 26K+
Interests: Victorian dress, Emily Dickinson, making cherry tarts, Alice in Wonderland, lace, and poetry slams.
Dislikes: Body odor, fish, flowers, and the rain.
SusieSunshine
Age: 28
Gender: Female
Field of Business: Botany
Yearly Income: 14K
Interests: Peace, flowers, long hair, marijuana, holding hands, tye-dye, Mother Nature, AVALANCHE, and sunshine.
Dislikes: Violence, guns, soldiers, government, Rufus Shinra, Turks, SOLDIERS, Sephiroth, and Shinra Inc. itself.
PN03
Age: 22
Gender: Female
Field of Business: Game Development
Yearly Income: 20K
Interests: PS2, Xbox, old school Game Boys, first-person shooters, DDR, simulated driving games, fighting games, and Pokémon Red.
Dislikes: Bootlegs, bootleggers, 8-bit graphics, and sticky buttons on controllers.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEND A MESSAGE?
Dear SusieSunshine,
I'd like you to know that pacifists like you do not live long in this tyrannical world we live in. You get obliterated. You get mutilated. You get pulverized. You wilt. Yes, you wilt like plants after we spray DDT on them. You mutate like the animals that eat the plants with the DDT on it.
Dear Anachronistic Darling,
There is no place in this world like you. Please go and drown yourself in a pool of ammonia.
Dear PN03,
You should make a game based on sex.
SENT
He leant back on his swiveling chair, weathered hands behind his head, and an indifferent look on his face. His eyes were half-closed, and the cigarette (AKA "cylinders of death") burned down to the filter stump. With two fingers, he put that in the glass ashtray that looked like you were putting your cigarettes between two breasts.
Two glass breasts that you couldn't fondle like a real woman's.
Jesus, he was desperate. Desperate and horny. When was the last time he made love to a beautiful woman? When was the last time he had someone to love? When was the last time he'd cradle her in his arms, sharing a glass of red wine, and she'd pluck grapes off the stem and feed him? When was the last time he was woken in the middle of the night so that she would have comfort after a nightmare?
He got up and dragged himself to his bed, which was naturally unmade and messy. Burying his face into his stained pillow, he envisioned himself with the perfect woman.
She would have dark hair and bright eyes. Dark hair always brought out the brightness in eyes, he thought. She'd have a fair complexion, and a round and happy face. Her name would be something elegant. She'd be curvy in some places, and trim as a dancer in others. Her hands and feet would be super-soft, and she would give him a nice massage when he was tired.
She'd be the last one to see when he went to sleep and the first one to see when he woke up. She'd make him a hearty breakfast and kiss him goodbye if he had any work to do that day. She would be waiting for him at the docks, wearing a pretty dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, just to bring him homemade lunch. And when he came home, all tired and worn out, she would have dinner ready, but they would first share a beer watching some show on the telly. He'd tell what happened that day that was interesting, and she'd listen and make intelligent comments, and she'd then tell him anything interesting.
Then they would have dinner in his small apartment, eating on the small wooden table with deep, jagged scratches running through it that he found in a junkyard. She'd pile the table with delicious food so that you wouldn't see the faded blue paint on the table. Then she would do the dishes, and he would go take a shower.
When he came out of the shower, she would be in the bedroom in her pretty red robe reading some classic novel, her hair tied up, and glasses on her face. He would walk in with nothing but boxers on, and she'd hand him a fine cigar and a lighter. He would smoke it, and she wouldn't care about the smoke because she loved him anyways. When he was done, he threw the stub out the window like always, and crawled into bed. She'd fold the page she was on, take off her glasses, untie her long dark hair, and get up from the armchair to join him in the cotton and down sanctuary guarded by none other than a man of sinewy muscle and flesh.
They might make love; steamy, sweaty sex. Or maybe they would just cuddle under the sheets, mumbling and whispering sweet nothings as a wave of sleep passed over them. Or maybe they would stay up all night, talking about the most random things, like how to pronounce certain words with more than ten letters in them, or if they should have children and name them after the season they were born on.
Everyday would be different; everyday would be something he looked forward to. Oh, how Cid dreamed of this perfect woman, oh, how he wished, wished, wished she was real and able to love him.
Realizing that it was all just an illusion he had created in his mind, a solitary tear squeezed out of his eye and fell onto the dirty pillow as the pilot closed his eyes sadly.