This month’s Emergency Edit comes courtesy of the famous ‘You make me touch your hands for stupid reasons.’ Follow the link to hear a dramatic reading of this letter; it’ll help you appreciate my editing.

Original text

Dear Loser,[Chris]~~~~!!!!!
I thought you liked me you said it yourself I hate you .People only say you asked me out because you needed a date for the dance and that after the dance you would dump me well guess what bastert i dumped you cause you were thinking that i cheated on you i didnt so like idiots that you guys are and so smart that you are you called me a slut.I hung up on you cause you tol me it on the phone because i guess you werent man enough to tell me it in my face!I hate you and also guess what my mother hates you to that she the one who put me to do this ,you come to breakfast every morning and I aint stupid you try to sit next to me and my lil bro who only 7YRS old hates you to and dont even know what you did and is always blocking your chair.haha!I went out with another boy after you and after we were over you an idiot dared you even tried to ask me out again i didnt break up with him for you OK! I hate you ive always hated you spreading to everyone that i cheated on you when you just got jealouse that i used to talk to your friends to your so jealouse you automatically think i like them well guess maybe i do maybe i dont gotta problem you aint my boyfriend anymore I dont have to tell you who i like or who iam with and why got it i dont like you anymore the other day you told me that I have to tell you who I like or who Iam thinking of going out with its none of your buisness got that to you loser!I hate you and I know you still like me but i dont like you i dont care what your stupid friends say you make me touch your hands for stupid reasons u accidentally say you hugged me i will never like you again I HATE YOU I HATE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THIS DAMN WORLDDDDDDDDDD id rather date a spider or rat den u ur soooo ugly and fat !!!!!!!!!!And then saying that i loooooooved you pleasssse!!!!!!!!!!!Your such n ass wipe n bastert!! I HATE YOOOOOOOOOOU

Well bi you piece of shit i have more things to do right now then remember YOU

(edited version after the jump)

Edited text

Dear Chris,

Did you ever really like me? I truly thought you did; but why would you lie about something like this? I’m confused, and I’d rather we not see each other again.

I feel used; friends have hinted that you only wanted a date for the dance, and that you would leave me soon after. I can’t handle this tension, and I’ve decided to preemptively walk out on you. And those rumors you’ve been spreading: me cheat on you? That’s just juvenile.  I may not be bright, but I still have my dignity, and I deserved to be directly confronted with the truth.

I fought for you, you know; you left a bad impression on my family every time you came over for breakfast; did you think my mother wouldn’t notice your inappropriate advances? Even my brother was disturbed, and he’s only seven!

In our last conversation you asked whether I’d been with other boys, and considering the rumors you’ve spread and your clear intention to break up with me I don’t think that’s any of your concern anymore; you are no longer my boyfriend. Who I like, date or see in my free time is my business, and I’ll thank you to mind your own.

You’re a failure Chris, a failure in love and life – a loser, dare I say; and in our short time together you’ve been a bad boyfriend. And Chris, for your sake, stop making women touch your hands for stupid reasons; the experience was just.. strange.

I hate you Chris; you make me want to use capital letters and bad grammar. Feel free to mutilate the truth – you’re good at that – but as far as I’m concerned we’re through. You’re rude, deceitful, ugly and fat.

Goodbye Chris, I have a life to live without you.

Think you’ve found grammar that can make me cry?  Mail it here, and if it’s horrible enough I’ll put it up.

Photo (and cupcakes) by Clever Cupcakes, Montreal

‘Well, if all else fails, we can always get married.’

She actually said that.

I’m a delicate flower; and naively I thought that when my future wife proposed to me – yes, she would propose to me! – she’d bring flowers, diamonds and a puppy. Instead, this pragmatic Dutch girl catches the corner of my eye and raises an eyebrow in anticipation.

I squealed like a 16-year old birthday-girl with a giftwrapped unicorn – on the inside.

‘I was actually thinking that myself.’

I don’t think she expected that answer; but then she doesn’t know what I know.

Most countries have their local flavor of princesses: the pretty but not necessarily bright girl who propels her self-esteem through life one Gucci bag at a time. Men everywhere have suffered them, I know, and have developed sage-patience and titan-strength (I’ve been playing God of War, sorry) but I promise you have not endured until you’ve been with a Lebanese Princess.

Yes it’s a proper noun.

So when a pretty Dutch girl offers unconditional love, a low-maintenance contract and a generous dose of geekness, you grab her; you grab her before she ever meets a Lebanese Princess.

Yes, it’s a proper noun.

So we’re getting married, and I couldn’t be happier. Dutch people rock.

Photo by Paul Friel

So, three fat women walk into a government office; did that sound like the front end of a bad joke? Let me try again.

One tired, miserable writer walks into a government office after two weeks of incompetent officials and hot, hot Beirut sun; how difficult could it be to renew your girlfriend’s visa, right?

And as I stood there in the hot, hot office waiting for yet another lazy laborer who really knew what I should do, to get off his supremely important call and work his way through the man with the moustache, lady in a scarf, smelly guy in pink tights, smelly guy in jeans and smelly guy in – what the hell is he wearing? – the universe took a moment to remind me how lucky I am.

‘Excuse me monsieur, can I pass?’

I turned to explain to the squeaky voice that despite her (not altogether) fairer gender she’d still have to wait in the miserable, sweaty line. I wish I’d gotten the chance to; I generally come up with some decent commentary when I’m stressed.

‘My God! You’ve lost so much weight!’

Cue the veiled lady behind the counter; and if our new friend had lost weight then I can’t imagine what she looked like before.

‘Teach me,’ said another woman, ‘I’ve been trying but it isn’t working.’

I remind you: this woman could put walruses to shame.

Contestant number two had breasts the size of watermelons, and those duck-shaped lips that are the telltale sign of botched plastic surgery. It was a particularly interesting botch-up though; you could tell that the same guy who ruined her lips had also ruined her cheekbones, facelift and new nose. The breasts were surely someone else’s work; someone with roots in farming.

‘She doesn’t eat,’ said contestant number three. This may have been her sister, but any family resemblance would surely have been lost to a scalpel decades ago. Contestant number three had done some pretty extensive work to her face, and the way she eyed her maybe-sister’s landscaping gave me the feeling that she had bodywork in her near future: ‘She doesn’t eat and she’s still gaining weight.’

‘Oh, I don’t eat either,’ said number one, ‘but I’ll bet you still drink a lot of water, right?’

If any one of them had spent a day without food, may I have been struck down into hamburger and fed to them.

‘I can’t help it, I get thirsty.’

‘That’s the secret, but it’s not easy. And you’re fat all over, so it’ll take a while.’

Gentle, delicate flowers; but as I shed a tear for the future of humanity I consoled myself with headlines from the imaginary newspaper in my head: ‘Plastic trio dies of dehydration; silicone salvaged for rubber ducks.’

Photo by Neal Sanche

My name is Karl, and there’s no music in my head.

I realize it may not seem like a problem, but see that tune you were humming in the bathroom this morning? Remember that song you drove home singing last night? Yeah, I have none of that.

The best writers, I hear, write effortlessly; as soon as their hands touch the keyboard their fingers dance to the music only they hear, and weave pieces of their lives, dreams and that obscure art they saw while stumbling into the trash-bins drunk, on Friday night, into great literature. Or if you’ve watched painters tackle a canvas; they too have rhythm and grace that I can’t quite catch – all I see is an angry artist stabbing a cloth with a brush.

But even everyday people have a beat, something they walk to, talk to, dance to and have thumping, rhythmic sex to – I suppose.

I walk into walls, trip over nothing and simply cannot dance, not if it would save my life. And when I write, I need absolute silence.

But this is the month of parties, festivals and, above all, music; and in that spirit I’ve decided to keep my media player running in the background. As a result, I’m completely drained of inspiration.

This last paragraph was written to Dire Strait’s Brothers in Arms.

Even if I could wrap my head around the song I’m listening to, I’ll either start singing along, or instantly hate it and need a break. Music tends to skew the voice in my head – here I refer to the narrator that tells my fingers what to type, not the sociopathic clown that keeps telling me to hurt myself. Dire Straits for instance prompted me to ask my girlfriend for inspiration:

‘Write about exam stress.’

Nonsense, while her presentation may be due tomorrow, Leonard Cohen’s Tower of Song is now playing, and stress is the very last thing I could possibly write about.

‘Or about puppies!’

Thinking back, I have quite a few anecdotes involving puppies. Most of these generally dealt with some supremely emasculating act I committed as a result of sudden burst of ‘awww;’ a man my size, and with my chest hair cannot be seen in ‘awww’ situations; it’s simply unnatural.

But puppies would have to wait five minutes and 38 seconds for the talented Cohen to shut his… see that? That was Metallica’s fault. So metal is out, and soft rock is out; time for Gorillaz: ‘I’m happy, I’m feeling glad I got sunshine…’

Or wait, was it ‘I ain’t happy?’ There goes my groove again.

‘Write about puppies, and how they positively contribute to lessening exam stress!’

‘Yes dear.’

Photo by Paco CT

Summertime, and the living is, well, strange.

Beirut goes through a cotton shortage in the summer, and our poor, underprivileged women have to walk the street with hardly a scrap of clothing to cover their, um, honor. Fret not ladies, for every one of your exposed strolls I guarantee there are half a dozen warm-blooded men in deep consideration, trying to find a solution to your plight.

I of course hardly notice any of that anymore (I swear honey!), and as I was driving by yet another playboy parade on the marina the other day I saw, well, I saw them.

‘Them’ here refers to about 20 or so 40-somethings on Harley Davidsons driving up (and down, then up, and down again) the marina. I suppose they were hunting for women, but then they could always have been out on a philosophical quest for enlightenment involving loud engines, sunsets and asphalt. No wait, they were definitely hunting for women.

And we were hunting for a place to eat our sandwiches.

The leader of the pack (I restrain myself while writing this) raised his hand in a fist, and the entire procession came to a halt. He dismounted (more restraint) his hog and walked towards the best-endowed playboy princess.

We were parked, hungry and just out of earshot to catch his pickup line, but I’m creative, and I figured it went something like this: ‘Can I offer you a ride on my hog?’

No hang on, he couldn’t have been that crass. He was at least in his mid-40s, and someone that age would’ve certainly developed more skill: ‘You, me, on the bike, now!’

That couldn’t have been it either; a line like that would’ve made a woman weak in the knees. And her knees looked just fine to me (they were right in my sandwich’s line of sight!)

‘What’s a fine babe like you doing on a bland strip like this? Wouldn’t you much rather wrap your arms around me and let the wind play with your hair as 19 other men stare at your ass?’

Actually, I think that last one may not be that far off; whatever it was, his object of aging desire was laughing so hard she choked on her super-sized cola; we quickly closed in to try and listen.

And just as I’d given up on him, he had a stroke of inspiration: ‘All I’m saying is, would you like to take a picture with our bikes? You could ride mine and the guys would make a fantastic background.’

I’ll never get why women love cameras, but whatever smugness I’d felt at his misfortune quickly dwindled into shame as the women mingled with the bikers; the man was a genius.

And we need some company motorcycles.