Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:
I feel sort of guilty. Don’t worry; it’s nothing too terribly bad. It’s not like I robbed a bank or kissed your best friend or anything like that. It’s just…well, I feel like I’ve sort of misled you. Just a little bit. It wasn’t intentional, I promise, and you probably already figured this out by now, but I’ll just put it down on virtual paper for the record; you know, so we’re both on the same page (no pun intended!)
I’m nosy. I’m more curious than a cat on the hunt for a pesky mouse. I’m sometimes a bit too forward in the question-asking department; if it were up to me, no question would be off limits. Ever.
Is it hard to believe that I could be like that? A few days ago, the hilarious Young Guns and I were talking about people being nosy. I hinted that I was probably one of the nosiest people he’ll ever meet, to which he just looked at me in complete and utter shock. The look on his face was sort of priceless, actually, as if he couldn’t believe that someone as innocent looking as me could ever be such a nosy pest. Apparently, the poor boy underestimated me. Yet again.
But, as you’ll come to learn, I am. I ask lots of questions. I have to know what’s going on all the time. I hate secrets. I love the truth – that sort of open and honest truth that grips you at the very core of your soul, you know?
It can be annoying at time, I’m sure, but I chalk it up to the journalist in me. I have this innate need to know what people are thinking, feeling, doing. OK, some (maybe even you) may call it stalking, but I’m sure they said the same thing about Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Right? And besides, it’s not like I’m going to invade your privacy, hack into your email and hire a detective to track your every move
See, it’s not so bad. Really. You’ll probably even love it. Until we meet…
[Photos via pretentious and pop]