Hello everyone, this is Ruckus MacMullit and I’m back. Jimmy seems calmed down now, so I guess itâ€™s safe to come out of hiding.
I thought things would be more tense with him, but heâ€™s been kind of preoccupied looking for something.
Not that Iâ€™m complaining.
Anyway, I sat down to write a bit for the Couch fans, but I got stuck. All that time between the pixels must have given me writers blotch.
Itâ€™s a really bad case, too. Iâ€™ve got phosphor burn-in up and down both arms. Like those old arcade games where no matter what screen youâ€™re on, you can always see the top scores floating like number shaped clouds above the action. Except mine are in the shape of your emails.
By the way, you need to give up on that guy, heâ€™s just never going come around. You could also use a screen saver.
So I was going to give up and throw my notes away, when I found something a lot more interesting on the back side. I think itâ€™s from Wilh.
When I say your name, or sometimes even when I write it, my heart exceeds its usual, well-trained 80 bpm and moonwalks for joy.
Your bearing, your marksmanship, the way you hold a bayonet: all speak to me of woman who has everything, except someone to spar with.
Sometimes I like to imagine a life with you: long walks in the combat zone, picking out grenades together, cleaning our guns in front of a roaring fire.
And of course, matching and calibrated, his-and-hers bazookas.
Donâ€™t be fooled by the allure of strangers and mystery men when your battle-mate is right in front of you.
I needâ€¦â€¦â€¦â€¦…forget it.
I guess youâ€™re guaranteed to learn something whenever you tape together your scratch paper from the paper-shredder.
Anyway, I suppose thatâ€™s enough for one day.
Be sure to turn off your monitor tonight, those pixels get tired.