Dear nonexistent reader,

Let me woo you over and you my sophomoric, pretentious, and banal whatnot easily overlook. I offer you this human song in prosaic brute.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. I can think of a thousand reasons why neither one of us should have anything to do with the other, and she can probably one up me: In addition to my usual follies, through meticulous and consistent alternation between commonplace prude and silly vulgarian, I have managed to sow, bud and blossom myself into a drab and absolutely uninteresting flower of imperfection, plucked and out decaying now with no hope whatsoever of ever being worn at either end.

Your fault, nyah, nyah, nyah, you might say. But how was I supposed to know? Rain on cue to shut us in, a careless bottle of wine or two, tipsy caresses here and there (note: not initiated by me), and before I know it, here I am two thousand miles away, shit smitten and not into something that can never start. The sweet sad part is that for the first time in my life I am truly sorry over something like this; even got depressed for a few days. Now that I am going amok with woe blogging infringements, may this be a testament to the fact that most of us incorrigible beasts are sentimental old fools who deserve your pardon, and if not pardon, at least your private parts.

Rob Humbert.