To: Lindy West
Hey Lindy! I sent an email a while back to the old address of yours I have saved in my account. Since I hadn't gotten anything back, I figured that either you took that account out of commission OR YOU ARE A BAD PERSON. To account for both options, I wrote a few responses in a "choose your own adventure" style of correspondence.
If your account is inactive/my e-mail exploded, go to page 1.
If you ignored/fiendishly deleted the e-mail, go to page 2.
To run down the cave on the left, go to page 73.
1. Hey, what's up? If you still need an intern to to backbreaking digital labor for you, I'm pretty free for that sort of thing. Unemployment—the curse (and blessing!) of a post-grad. Hope things are swell!
2. Ooh, I hate you, Lindy West! I'm sending you a stern letter, via the United States Postal Service, whose envelope contains a cubic centimeter of meanie-poisoning ITCHING POWDER! You'll open it and GET A BIG GROSS RASH! Then you'll be sorry!
73. You take the left fork in the cave system, and hear the sounds of the mind-bees echoing quieter and quieter... "BZZZZ WE WILL POLLINATE YOUR THOUghts bzzzzzzz"... Your footsteps grow slower, and you start taking deep breaths as you slow down. The chamber you stop to rest in is almost pitch-black, so you take out your trusty Zippo. Just as you flick it, you catch a glint of light from above. You look up, and see thousands of glowing eyes glittering open—it appears you've found the fabled chamber of death bats. And you remember how much death bats are attracted to Zippo lighters. Just before you're eaten alive, swarmed by bats made of pure death, you remember the words of the old Bedouin sage: "Never go down the left path!"
Consider me charmed, intern applicant! Now go get me some fucking coffee.