I've Met the Alleged Woman of My Dreams

You've caught me on cloud nine, good people! With my pants down. But I assure you I was just scratching it. I can't be distracted by masturbation and not even depressed by the implication—Rok Finger may have met the possible woman of his dreams!

I'm not getting too ahead of myself, I guarantee you. I'm not saying this is the woman I'm going to marry, or I'm sure it's a woman. But I've met a very charming, loving, supportive possible woman and I can't wait to find out more about her/him. Hopefully her. Not to put all my eggs in one basket, but I haven't been this in love with a woman (hopefully) since my late wife Arvelyn. That bitch was never on time.

And Molga is punctual! For six days in a row I showed up on time in the chat room and she was there, just when she said she'd be. We talked and talked and talked the night away! Conversation with Molga was like conversation with myself! But half the work. She's every bit as confident, traditional, paranoid, and angry as I am. It's like I've met myself, with breasts. Hopefully breasts. They look like breasts in the picture.

Yes, I've seen her face—and I'm a believer. I believe in love, like only a miniature, stodgy, past-his-prime man in love can believe! She's not classically lovely, like the Sphinx, but her nose has been worn off by time in the same fashion. She has a beautiful, large brow, heavy reddish cheeks like two slabs of raw pork, and a smile as big as her heart and as wide as her neck. Oh, if she's a woman, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen! That's what I told myself when I first saw her and I'm sticking to that.

For Molga and I it was love at first sight of her typeface. She was a lovely Times New Roman, I, a stern-but-sensitive Arial, yet we instantly recognized the extreme disgust for hippies and slackers in each other's words. We were drawn to each other across a crowded room, like two strangers wearing magnetic helmets and metal breastplates. From that first day we talked about our mutual disinterests and everything that should be wiped from the face of the earth with fire or genetic manipulation. Molga! The name just rolls off your lips, after tenderizing your tongue and busting out your front teeth.

For all my bitterness and black-hearted cynicism for the past few months, I have to admit, the Beatles were right: Everybody's got something to hide but me and my monkey. And my monkey is Molga. We're in love and want the world to know it, except for her boyfriend and family.

So Molga said we'll celebrate our one-week anniversary by meeting each other in person. She hopped a plane and is on the way to visit me here in the United States right this minute! Oh, how I pray for her quick arrival, and for her to be a woman. Once again I'm not entirely sure of the fact, but I have reasonable faith it is the case.

I asked the new commune stock Russian, Boris, if he knew Molga at all, since she is from the Ukraine. He speaks very little English, even less when you sneak up on him at the urinal, but I didn't garner as much that he's never met her. I figured it was a long shot, Russia's probably twice as big as Utah, if my map is any indicator. I did get that "Molga" translates as some kind of unusual fairy tale creature, that much I could gather. I'll have to ask her about it when she arrives; the best Boris could explain with his broken English was the word "Yeti."

Oh, Molga! I'll count the hours until you arrive! Especially if they have a "Delivered in 10 hours or your ride is free" policy of some sort.

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