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Dear Desirewithfaith,
Way back in December when I was just a newbie at this diabolical Matchgame, you know, the game where a guy takes his time to read a woman's profile carefully, drinks it in, and responds to it with care--that sort of rarity in your world of idiots, dumb-ass winkers, and grade-b jerk-offs hoping for a hoot--I got about nothing ever back. Was I too polite, too formal, too well-educated sounding and, God forbid, decent? Yes, alas, the curse of poor Hamlet and better breeding have always been upon me, plus a mind for dirtiness and passion, which, by the way you mention in your profile: Passion? I went skiing and practically broke my head off falling and being chucked in the woods last Saturday I was going so fast. "It doesn't get any better than that!" I said out loud to total strangers at the lodge when I told them about my mind-blinding wipe-out. That's passion. I come home from work, and get cranking on my fifth novel, or, more recently, the 58th short story that finished up the collection. This, I mail off to the publisher, when, happily, it was requested. How? Why? Passion. I write close to 300 hundred letters to beautiful, dazzling, intelligent, educated women on Match, all of whom seem to want a man with passion, a love of adventure, good conversation, and the desire to travel. Some write me back; most don't. Do I care? Somewhat, yes, definitely. I wish they ALL wrote me back. But they don't. And I go on because I always go on. Why? Passion.
Egbert
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