From: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:02 AM
To: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: Update: Recap of last week
To whom it is about to concern,
You. Only you. Of course it’s you. Every bloody time. You see so and so over there? Yes, that one. They’re back. Who, you say? No, not who, they’re not a who to you anymore What, did you forget how this all started? Alright, let us rewind to a simpler, but equally mediocre time.
(Approximately one week ago.)
It is Monday morning. The lights are white, your desk is adjustable, and the clinical career choice is killing you at the agonizingly average pace of one stale coffee per hour. Your brain is more fried than a chow mein carelessly tossed into a flaming butter churn going at terminal velocity. Death has yet to grace you with its merciful touch.
(Remember: The human experiment is a failure. You are living proof.)
You look up from your desk, and there they are, bathed in fluorescent light. And a terribly broken part of you—not the mummy/daddy/financial/spiritual/digestive issues—howls from a place you cannot identify. It leans in, squeezing in through the cracked parts of you like fresh mincemeat through a well-oiled cheese grater, slick and slippery, until it escapes you in one horrified breath.
(You have found a new god.)
They are perfect. You would make a good pair. You know this because you have barely spoken to them during clinical death hours and have only caught glimpses of them as they flit from meeting to meeting. Somehow, they have maintained the ability to smile.
(This is very attractive.)
You were blind before, but now it is as clear as day; they are so good lookingly average, decisively middling, unseasoned soup, cardboard incarnate, an unholy body of Christ glued to the roof of your now drooling mouth. You start gnawing on the bars of your cage, shivering as this delicious ache courses through your body.
(If you do not have them you will die.)
A romcom etches itself into your brain. You start praying to whatever god you don’t believe in. Your mind whirrs, clicking and clucking and cooing as each fantasy rolls in, smooth and perfectly formed:
Your meet cute will be so saccharin that passersby will suddenly clutch at their mouths as they lose a tooth to your enviable sweetness.
Your love will stand and confess their feelings from a respectable yet undeniably horny and cinematically appropriate distance à la Pride and Prejudice (2005).
You will stand on the prow of a magnificent ship, flying above the waves with your arms outstretched and not freeze to death because both of you will fit on that stupid floating door.
You will fight passionately, but it will be solved with equal passion. You are a Taylor Swift song in the making.
(It is ordained. Your appetite is whet—you dive deeper.)
In a world where you are both significant enough to go on a business trip, there will be a perfectly timed thunder storm and the hotel will only have one room left. Naturally, the receptionist will be deeply apologetic as they tell you about their damaged central heating system. How unfortunate! To be stranded in such a remote location in the bitter cold—the safest and most sensible option is to rely on each other’s body heat as you survive the night, of course.
Sex will be magnificent. Obviously.
The world will be reborn. Galaxies will form. Empires will rise. It will be erotic and romantic and spontaneously perfectly planned. Nothing will go wrong. You will be perfectly horny at the perfect time and you will look perfectly dishevelled in a hot, effortlessly undone way, and you will slip into, onto, and out of each other with military precision.
(You will never need lube. Ever.)
Lexicographers, etymologists, linguists, and scholars worldwide will unanimously tear out dictionary pages in your honour and replace the definitions of love, lust, and matrimony with pictures of you before, during, and after sex.
Your sex tape will replace porn. All of it.
People will look on in awe as you defy physics. They will weep at the beauty of your love. The Kama Sutra will go out of print.
(Everyone will envy you.)
All caught up?
Please take a minute to recap the above. We’ll circle back to this. Looking forward to your reply.
Somewhat exasperatedly,
Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:30 AM
To: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: URGENT UPDATE
Hi Foolish Brain/Heart?,
In my previous email I thought it best to start as if anew since we haven’t been properly in touch for a while, to the point where I thought we’d lost contact. Since I received no reply, I’ve decided to follow up with this urgent update:
Look up. They are moving. And swiftly, too.
Actually exasperated,
Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit
P.S. I think it’s better to have this conversation subconsciously sans screen for more timely updates from both sides.
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:31 AM
To: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: Re: URGENT UPDATE
Hi Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit,
Thank you for your patience, I am all caught up and panicking. I appreciate the benefits of escaping offline by going outside or hiding in the bathroom while talking to myself, but I fear the deadline I far too tight.
To avoid looking like a trainwreck, I will take a sip of acidic coffee, crane my head over my monitor to sneak subtle glances, and pretend everything is fine.
Bear with me,
Your Foolish Brain/Heart?
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:32 AM
To: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: Update RIGHT NOW: Change of direction!!!
Hi Your Foolish Brain/Heart?,
Please see update below NOW:
No, it cannot be! Why do they move in this direction? They always go the other way in this hellscape we are forced to call an office, why are they coming this way?
(You scream, internally.)
No! No! How dare they not keep the exact unknown distance where you feel slightly hopeful yet desperately yearn for them to plant a loving kiss on your forehead and sweep you off your feet?
They are approaching! They are making eye contact! They are holding a coffee! They are smiling!
(The moment has presented itself.)
You wish to die, but you must persevere, forsake preparation! You open your mouth.
(You beg for something witty and charming to escape it.)
Wait, who is that behind them? Another coworker? This unwelcome stranger catches up to your beau and they greet you in unison. They move on, together. Laughing. Unwelcome stranger is holding the same cup. They are beverage twins.
(You die slightly.)
Why are you not beverage twins? You also drink liquids! You drink every hour from these sad little paper cups! Can they not see that you are a chow mein brain tossed in hot melted butter, ready and slick?
(Shambles, shambles!)
What is this, why did they choose them? What about your imaginary offspring and house and future? Why bother saying hello, to rub it in your face? To show off their new connection? Just because you have a full cup on your desk doesn’t mean you can’t have another, your body is shot anyway, why not you, why not us?
(You gulp down half. Perhaps they will come back, alone.)
It’s too bad, really too bad. The first impression is ruined and now you’re sad and furious at evolution for not removing such unnecessary emotions. Them? That one? What a waste. Here you are, telepathically telling them you would happily ride them into the sunset in perpetuity and they are too foolish to feel the searing lasers from your lovestruck eyes blasting the back of their skull.
(Mouth closed. Heart sealed. Hopes dashed.)
Why are you we us like this,
Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:34 AM
To: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: Re: Update RIGHT NOW: Change of direction!!!
Hi Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit,
I have retreat to my keyboard and am working at a frenetic pace, a wounded animal in hiding. I am burning with indignant embarrassment and cursing myself for allowing my imagination to be so cavalier.
Why indeed are me you we us like this,
Your Foolish Brain/Heart?
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:35 AM
To: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Subject: Final update
Hi Your Foolish Brain/Heart?,
How dare your heart have the audacity to do this. Nonsense, utter nonsense—the matters of the heart must always consult with the brain. I highly recommend your subconscious make a mental note to do this next time.
Resisting the urge to lie prone,
Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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From: Your Foolish Brain/Heart? <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Sent: Monday, dates are meaningless here, Year of Our Lord 2026, 9:37 AM
To: Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit <fortheloveofgod@why.com>
Hi Limerence Infected Sad Meat Suit,
Understood, my subconscious has filed this away under ‘ignore’ not for future reference.
I finish the cup and crush it. It lands in the metal wastepaper bin with a satisfying clang, along with me you we us our feelings of them.
Crush over. Back to reality.
Hopelessly,
Your Foolish Brain/Heart?
P.S. Will repeat tomorrow???
Sent from that deeply unfortunate desk sat smack band in the middle of this open plan office
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