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I get lots of emails about my blog and Twitter. Mostly thanking me for writing a post or asking about hosting something smutty. Usually it’s just junk mail. Very few deal with anything truly personal and only the one’s thanking me do I keep and read whenever I’m down or feel like my writing is just well not doing anything. I write for me. I write to share with whoever finds this blog and can identify with the uphill battle that is single parenting. and starting over. Or the dating, and the dating and oh the dating. Looking for love is tedious. It’s awful and it hurts.

There are four emails I’ve gotten in the past year that were story worthy, but only one of them was ever written about. And prompted my immediate termination of the emo-life suckers in my existence. The other I’ve kept tucked away in my email inbox and re-read it a few times and wondered what it really meant. Sure I could’ve just asked the e-mailer what his motives were but that would be way too easy. I’ve got to make things complicated. I’ve got to stretch things out over months and not get answers and by now it’s probably moot. I mean he’s probably got a girlfriend or is some kind of creepy loser. Right?

Why all this now? Well safe to say, I’ve thought about things with Good Guy and things with all the others in my life and none of them seem to get it. Nomad is the closest to uncovering the real Mama, but no one has every actually sat down to think about what I might be feeling and addressed it. And this stranger has done exactly that without any reason. He’s never met me. He’s never known me. He has no reason to try to peel away the wrapper on this fallible mind and figure it out. And I must say I’m intrigued.

So what am I going to do about it? Well that is a very good question and it all depends on if I have the balls to do something about it and if the e-mailer actually still reads this blog. So, to be continued…


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