Remember about a week ago when I was offered a yacht by a Latvian Princess from Nigeria? I wrote to her, checked my email a day later, and did not see a reply.

As luck would have it, my fair maiden did in fact reply to me, and almost immediately after I had closed my email. Unfortunately, I then failed to check my email for the next week. As a result, I missed my fair lady Isabel’s response, and her once in a lifetime offer for her sublime writing to appear on my site – in English and for free – went seemingly unaccepted.

But write back she has.

Hello Timothy,
Firstly I have to give you a 9/10 for the criativity and and 7.5/10 for the sarcasm level, it’s pretty good but there’s a lot of room for improvement.

Screencap of the email in protonmail.

English is her second language, and I bet she has a sexy little accent as well. If the price to pay for top notch middle aged European HR lady gash is the occasional seething of the spellchecker, count me in bucko.
Satire? I meant every word. Nothing gets me rock hard like social media outreach specialists working with luxury yacht trip corporations to write random gibberish all over my site.
But  it would be appreciated if you could add a do-follow link to our website, so as to improve the SEO, this is the correct TevMedia:
Also, if you ever think of booking a luxury yacht trip, kindly consider OceanScape since we get 5% on referrals.
I can’t even explain why this line made me laugh so hard. She’s talking to a guy who is running a political website in Canada, and she throws in that they get 5% on referrals if I recommend anyone their Yacht affiliate. I don’t even get anything out of this, it’s purely for her.
But I appreciate having the balls to ask, so let me make sure that you, the Daily Rake audience, understand that luxury yacht trip purchases are to go through OceanScape now. It’s what Isabel would have wanted, and she gets a small commission. 
Ps: If you wish to publish on our website (even if a satire), feel free to send us as well, we’ve got only 3 at the moment and plenty of space for more.
Kindest Regards,
Isabel · Outreach Specialist

I’m not really sure what she meant. Does she want us to send her scientific manuals or poetry? And who are these three other Chads who are trying to steal my wahmon?!

Since the instructions are unclear, I decided to write her back.

Isabel, my Dearest Beloved,
This past week has been the worst of my life. I had not heard back from you. Oh I know, you had written to me the next day, as your heart commanded you to. It would be natural for you to expect that I had read your email that day, and chosen not to respond. I imagine that you have been sitting there in your apartment, staring for hours into the Latvian streets below, unseeing, your mind pre-occupied only by one thought, that dearest Dr. Shekelstein had ignored you.
This was not the case, for I am a coward. I could not bear to check my emails, for fear of an empty inbox. And as we both know, an empty inbox is an empty heart. It was this cowardice that lead me to drag my feet. To deny the doom that I feared myself so deserving of. The eternal despair of dreams not fulfilled, of love unrequited, of an inbox as dry and barren as Jennifer Aniston’s womb.
Imagine my shame as I sat down once more at my computer, fired up proton mail, and found a return email from Isabel, my dearest, dated just the following day after I had sent my words, and my heart, to you. In your words I saw your face, beautiful, wisened by the years. I saw you smiling, giddy with excitement, feeling the clock of your life turn back to younger days when life seemed so full of hope and dreams and potential. Days when love was real, and romance existed not just on the pages of a cheap novel, or even between the sheets of a motel room bed, but on the dirty cobbled stones of a back alley, in the mundane breakroom, outside of a convenience store. A normal place. A real place. Except on this fateful day a boy meets a girl. A girl meets a boy. And together they smile.
I saw your email Isabel I saw it! And I considered ignoring it, I am ashamed to admit. I, in a moment of selfishness, thought it might be better for you to imagine that I had died, perhaps in the war in Ukraine, perhaps in a fateful car accident while robbing a bank to feed an entire school full of hungry orphans. Or maybe after a particularly heated argument over Flat Earth that gets way out of hand, or after choking on a walnut. Either way, I would leave you with only the memory of me, a never fading memory of the perfection of love. For it is better to have loved and lost – due to him choking on a peanut – than never to have loved at all. I fancied I could do what our Great Uncle Adolf did, as he left us with the memory of his smile, his kind eyes, and his dream.
This gave me an excuse, a justification for inaction. I could not bear to have you know the truth, that I had not the courage to check my emails for fear of not seeing you one last time, in email form. I found myself unable to confront myself over this, and headed outside, my head a jumbled maze of discordant thoughts.
I walked through the streets alone, my head down, my tasteful scarf wrapped around me as the icy wind nipped at my face. I was so wrapped up in myself that I cannot say when it happened, but soon I found myself walking alone, on a platform suspended on nothing in space. Around me were stars and planets and starships. Ahead of me only a quaint little home, with a small hole for a window, lit with flickering candleight from a hidden source inside. It was cozy, warm. It was home. 
I walked towards the light, my footsteps echoing on the stone platform, until I arrived on the edge of the door. But just as I knocked it opened up. On the other side of the frame was a kindly old man, not what I had expected, and yet perfectly fitting. He invited me in and I sat down on a small wooden chair.

AI art can be kind of retarded, but this is close enough.

I know not what sort of magic he wove into that chair, or perhaps the sweet drink he pressed into my hand, but I found myself more comfortable then as ever before. Breathing, sipping, glancing every now and then out another window at the Milky Way, so clearly illuminated. Enraptured by the deep and friendly voice of the old man, his eyes bright and blinking, as if the two of us were privy to a secret joke that only we knew. I drank deeply as I listened, the fireplace gently cracking in the corner his voice’s only companion.
The kindly old wizard told me many stories. How he had arrived here at the crossroads, as he called it. What he was doing, the battles he had fought, the lives he had saved, and above all, the strange creatures he had encountered. I could have stayed there for all eternity, Isabel, as a voyeur in his life. But at last it was time to go.
He gestured for me to have another drink. I was unguarded, and drank greedily this new flavour. When I turned back his visage was hazy, wavering, my words slurred. The last I saw was his face, somehow clear, his lips moving, but no sound.
I awoke on my bed alone, staring straight ahead at the ceiling, feeling every atom of cloth touching my skin, and a gently warm trickle of air tickling me all over my body. I closed my eyes again. It would be easy to be angered, that such a transcendent experience had been over so quick. If only I had not drank that last potion, I could still be there, Isabel, still listening to his tales and drinking wine amongst the stars.
And yet I was not angered, I was blissful. I had been given a gift that few had ever been given. Not the stars, or the stories. Not the wine, or the fire. I knew then what the wizard had said to me as I slipped from that world to this. Not the words exactly, but the message. 
We need not look to outer space, my dearly beloved Latvian corporate drone, for we can find transcendence here on this planet. The cries of a newborn babe, the laugh of a young love in our arms, the marching songs and footsteps of a nation, and even the fulfillment of a life worth living. And sometimes, if we look closely, we find transcendence in the email replies from Latvian Social Media Outreach Specialists at Tev Media hocking luxury yacht trips.
Like a man possessed by a demon I went back to my computer, sat down, and read every word of your reply. My pupils dilated, my heart raced, I read to the end and then I closed my eyes, folded my hands over my heart, and reclined in my seat. This was it, Isabel, this was the perfect moment.
Would I like to publish on your website? What kind of question is that Isabel? Is the sky blue? Is the pope Spanish? Is my name Timothy? Did hook nosed beady eyed Jews invent the lampshadocaust? Yes, yes, yes, and it depends on your jurisdiction.
The only question is what shall I write. I await your orders. I sit here, like a young starlet in front of the camera, awaiting my turn with Destiny. Direct me. Command me. Tell me, that I may please you with my words. I live only to serve. 
With the most proponderance of love,
Timothy Coish, The Daily Rake
P.S. Didn’t this start with you offering to write a guest post for me? How exactly did we get around to me writing for you again. I’d like to know.

Will my beloved Luxury Yacht Trip Social Media Outreach Coordinator respond? I know not, only that I will be waiting with baited breath until she does.

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  1. I used to be tempted to reply — but actually you should never answer these emails b/c it confirms your email address is valid, and it could be spread around and used for who knows what other purposes.

  2. Such sublime prose – careful, yet tastefully revealing.

    I wish you two lovebirds all the best – may you both sail away together on a rental yacht and into a glorious open-ocean sunset!

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