Pamela, my love! I wrote you this missive on this “web-site” so that everyone may see it, especially the numerous men whose homes you have broken into for the purposes of armed and nonsensical assault. I fear I cannot contain my love for you any longer, and indeed my loins have burned for you ever since I set them aflame at the Fifteenth Annual Loin Immolation as Proof of Romantic Ardor Competition in Newark in December. Which, I might note, I really would have won if not for that guy with the flamethrower codpiece.
In short, I can no longer contain myself, and I fear that I may find myself overwhelmed by love for you in the near future. If this happens, Pamela, my love, if I can no longer keep my love for you caged within my breast, I wish you to know that it’s your fault, I completely blame you, and when they find me at my writing-desk they will know that it’s your fault. You will get the chair this time. Farewell, Pamela!
Note: for the entertainment of those assembled, a brief section known as “What Are You Playing” shall follow a brief intermission. Your entries are welcomed below, &c.