Junkbox

I’ve still got a hotmail account. It’s quaint, and it doesn’t work very well. Sometimes, it doesn’t work at all. Other times, this silly signature thing I imported from photobucket or something like it attaches various ridiculous ads to outbound emails. This is foolish. It’s tricky, though. I cannot see the ads in a Firefox browser, but they appear after they’ve been sent in the IE browser. The thing might behave completely differently in Chrome and Safari. Haven’t checked that out yet.

One of the benefits of a hotmail account is that the junk box is frequently tantalizing. The spam blocker apparently works well enough to block out my own outgoing shit, but it allows unknown or unwanted content to appear somewhere else, even within the system. I think I could delete that whole signature phenomenon, but I’m still having fun with it. Someone out there is making money off my personal emails. Love it.

In my junk box exists a world unknown to me, with seemingly limitless possibilities. A Nigerian millionaire (hasn’t this been played out already?!? Like fifteen years ago?) still is richer than I could ever imagine, and he’s still willing to share his abundances with me. I just have to donate $50 to free up some escrow funds, and I’ll be titled to tropical islands which I can name after myself, if I’m feeling narcissistic, or maybe after the cat…Nala Island…I could FedEx the unwanted barn cats down there, and they could create their own government. Such an idealist…

Also, there are the Eastern European women. They love me! They’re sure of it—they just haven’t met me yet. In their world, the deal would be sealed once they just hooked up with me—they’re right around the corner! These bitches are on every block!!! Why aren’t they at the grocery store? They have pictures, (that prove most certainly that pictures exist, even if they have been photoshopped)—those women exist! There isn’t much of a language barrier at all. I don’t know how they became fluent in English so quickly…the Asian girls are a little slower with the proper English.

But no matter how my day is going in the inbox, I’ve got that delirious wonderworld that is the junk box to fall back on. Sadly, it’s about as interesting as it gets around here. I guess I could crank up the realism by giving these fools an audience and replying to the mail. All I require out of them is a credit card number. As long as he’s paying, I surely wouldn’t miss out on my dinner date with Oksana down at the Starbucks in Junction City.