More of Julian Assange's creepy lovesick e-mails
Julian Assange's alleged "creepy, lovesick emails" have been all over the Internet lately.
Who says the love letter is dead?
According to Gawker.com, at the age of thirty-three, Julian Assange wrote a series of e-mails, which were leaked to Gawker by a nineteen year-old from the University of Melbourne whom he courted after what was apparently a magical evening of bar conversation -- about complex equations -- followed by a goodnight kiss.
But to Assange, it was much more than that. He sent her a series of highly involved, lovesick e-mails, obtained her phone number and called her house. The e-mails fall somewhere on the line between poetic and creepy, like most of the works of Edgar Allen Poe.
"Dear REDACTED," he writes on June 4, 2004.
"It is not so hard to thaw. Or to be drawn. Our intimacy seems like the memory of a strange dream to me.... It is almost as if I had scripted it and left my fingerprints in the ink. I'm not concerned with your messy reality. I don't want to see it and I confess I could not place you in mine.... I am unconcerned with the context since time and your silence has made me philosophical; but when I first wrote the heat of your breast pressed against me was still vivid in my mind.
She pretends to be someone else when he calls her home. He responds:
...So I cheer me and my ghost world. I cheer that script which has gone to reality while still only a draft, full of duplicate characters and scenes, unclosed parentheses and abounding dramatic strangeness.
He gives her his telephone number:
Re: the hysteria
Let A=1, B=2, C=3, etc. Then the first three letters of your suny license plate form a number. Take that number and add it to REDACTED. I am the answer.
Or, finally, when he is rejected, he writes:
A man feels that which is soft, warm and yielding in his arms must also be in other circumstances...Your response to my entirely well intentioned amusement was the understanding and empathy of the committed solipsist. You pulled a tiny petal off my world just when I thought you were to add one but all around is the meadow, where I shall again dance and skip and sing till some fool girl should brush my wing.
But as with the real WikiLeaks, that can't possibly be all there is! Based on how short this interaction was and how much mileage Assange allegedly obtained, here are the e-mails I bet will be unearthed next:
Re: Instant Savings From Staples
Dear "Sale," In the moment that I received your message, your hidden lover's code became clear to me. I hope to participate in you later, and hope that your suggestion I purchase a "camera" for 50% off means what I know, in the camera obscura of my heart of hearts, that it must. I will be bringing you a gift basket.
Re: Wrong Number
Although you claim that you had called a wrong number and asked repeatedly for "Jeff, is Jeff there," I was wounded by your manner. Did you not feel the palpable connection that hummed in the air betwixt our two warm voices, mingling and commingling like a very mixed metaphor? It saddens me to have misjudged you. The easy intimacy of our connection is something I have only previously found by calling chat lines which require me to provide them with my credit card number in advance, and I had hoped that our interaction would produce a friendship that would amount to considerable cost savings in this area, if not more. Parked outside your house behind an elm awaiting your reply. I think the elm looks wistful, as do we all.
Re: Our Moment
Dear Best Buy "Elf,"
It is not so hard to thaw. Or to be drawn.
Our encounter seems like the memory of a strange dream to me. Or was it a poem, recited by the lips on the giant 42" screen that loomed behind you as we spoke, mouthing words perhaps from Tennyson -- or Yeats? It is too murky now to say. I know only that your warm manner and familiar tone ignited within me a peculiar flame that I have had serious difficulty extinguishing, as though I had scripted it and gotten my fingers stuck in the typewriter.
Dear Apple Store Employee,
I found our engagement truly moving. Your warm smile and the openness of your manner as your soft hand caressed my keyboard continues to linger in the hollow chamber of my memory-shell. I know my external hard drive has no place in your home, nor could I conceive of placing you in mine, but I have reset the security on my laptop-heart so that it will allow you to access all the internal storage. Please forgive my forwardness; your added memory is still fresh and will enhance my processing for weeks to come.
Dear 1-800 Extenze Employee,
Carla, was it?
Earlier today I spoke to a Woman of your sex, age, family composition, weight, height, employment goals, social security number, first family pet's name, and vague aroma of wistfulness and lavender. She claimed not to be you. But I know you better. We come from the same ghost world.
So bust not my ghost world. Bust not the ghosts of this ghost world; call not those whom you are gonna call for the purposes of busting said ghost world. I cheer this e-mail, which I send to reality while still only a draft, full of duplicate charractterss and scenes, unclosed parentheses (and abounding dramatic strangeness.
Dear Natalie Portman,
A man feels that which is soft, warm, and yielding in all three of the Star Wars prequels must also be in person. But like Poe's Annabel Lee, you have all the empathy and tenderness of a woman who has been deceased for some time. Until now, I have kept you alive with the fire in my memory, but I cannot long abide your solipsism. Please do not seek to entangle me in your meshes; your restraining order against me lacks grace and justice. You may have placed me under the metaphorical bus so favored in the poetry of Auden, but I am unbowed, like a reed in the marshy area where I skip in dreams, frolicking in the mud of imagination and being bitten by the mosquitoes of hope who carry the West-Nile disease of lover's folly, which can only be cured by the several-day course of antibiotics of common sense under the care of the specialized doctors of Time in the companionship of frogs, which in this metaphor are actual frogs, who, because they are not women, possess some modicum of regard for the jewel of my constancy. Good day, sir.
Dear Robert Browning,
How do I love thee? I have counted the ways. Handily, it is your IP address, multiplied by four. This can also be rendered as the sum of your driver's license number (if A = 5, B = 10, and so on) and the square root of your social security number.
| December 17, 2010; 12:32 PM ET
Categories: Only on the Internet, Petri, That's awkward | Tags: alcohol, parody, wikileaks
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