I am in love.

I am in love with the way you construct your email. Every letter leaves me hanging by a thread and swinging in the breeze created by your wistful recollection. If I could materialize these letters into a person, I think he/she/it would be my perfect . My one true. My lifelong.

Nobody is exactly what their emails show them as. In life, I'm a tall boy who gets muckle-mouthed when I get fervent, swings wildly between being meek and being bold, and is sleepy most of the rest of the time. I never write how I want to say things, save for a few brief incidents, which include the paragraph preceding this.

I am in love.

I am in love with the thought of loving. The thought of being loved for my muckle-mouth, meek/bold swings, and love for the nocturnal arts. I am in love with the idea of getting phone calls at work that bear the single message "I love you". I am infatuated by the idea that I can and will love again, and am impatient for the search to be over.

You made mention to the fact that it seemed that I knew what I want in a woman. Truth is, maybe I want that, or maybe I wanted that yesterday, or maybe I'll want that tomorrow.... never mind, I can see this turning into a cliche` already. I'll tell you what I desire . I want a Sara Lee Dinner type woman: Prepared and ready to eat in three minutes without breaking a sweat, except maybe for getting steam in your face when you pry open that specially marked corner. Little to No pre-engagement trifles, just heat and serve.

But note that Sara Lee also takes all the beauty, grace, and style out of anything redeemable as culinary. It's a sacrifice. I think that I hoped that we would meet and it would be magical and that would be it:::: off to the white picket fences and 2.5 children.

But life doesn't work that way, and for some unknown reason, I want it to, and believe that it can.

Who knows? The odds of getting a hole in one are approximately 1 million to one and my golf partner got one today. I guess that things happen sometimes.

As far as you and I being some sort of cosmic bring-together, I can't vouch for that. My mom says that everything happens for a reason. That line has been debated for years by philosophers, so I won't even try. But it seems reasonable, at least to me, that this wasn't an accident.

Amy, I have never read, nor have I ever felt, the feeling that I feel right now. It's this wallowing self indulgence that someone across the state (eventually, across the US) listens to my soul and likes what she hears, mixed in with the blinding realization that I will never ever talk to anyone else like I talk *type* to you. You bring out the best in me. When I read the email that I send to you, I feel satisfied, much unlike the rest of my life, where I feel as if I'm the proverbial fat kid; stuffed with Mallomars and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, lagging behind the group, sweating and heaving.

But don't worry, I'll save a Mallomar for you...

Bryan