Dear Madame Fallon,

Thank you ever so much for replying. I didn't expect a reply so quickly. Heck, I didn't expect a reply at all. I hope you weren't serious about going to my site. I've been worrying about this all day. Did you like it? Did you hate it? Do you hate me now? Ohmanohmanohmanohmanohmanohmanohman. I can't take this kind of stress.
Luckily, I ordered a Nintendo a few weeks back and it just came today. The first system, not these new "Super" or "64" things. The classics! So that calmed me down.
From the time I sent the e-mail to you, I e-mailed Talena and went to sleep. When I woke up, I signed online and read your reply. So while the entire process had taken a few hours, it only took a half an hour to 45 minutes in my mind. I was so surprised to see a response from you that I crushed my apple juice box and it got all over my pants. I then called everyone I knew and read them your e-mail. I then told my entire family. Then I drew up flyers and posted them on all the street lights in a six mile radius of my house. I called a few radio stations to tell them, but panicked at the last second and requested the Nirvana song "Verse Chorus Verse" (at least, that's what I think it's called). No one cared, though. Except my mom, who has to pretend to care about the things I accomplish. None of them understand. They don't truly understand. Only you understand me. Only you. And I love you for it.
Ha! That's some funny stuff, no? I read the guestbook at the official Kittie site, and gord lord, but the posts there did scare me. You have some truly crazy fans. Seriously, I didn't think it was that bad. I really feel bad now for bothering you. I'm really sorry.
Wait, the caffeine just kicked in. Now the guilt is gone. I LOVE YOU FALLON AND I WILL MARRY YOU AND YOU WILL GIVE ME 800 GILLION BABIES AND YOULL COOK ME POT ROAST WITH ONE HAND AND PLAY GUITAR WITH THE OTHER AND IT WILL BE REALLY REALLY COOL.
Is this stuff even funny? You described my humor as "extremely intriguing." That's just a nice way of telling me I'm a jerk, right? Admit it. I suck! Grah! Everyone else tells me this stuff is hilarious. But they're probably just saying that because they feel sorry for me. I'm going to amount to nothing more than a lowly disc jockey. Not the cool ones that meet bands like Kittie, but the ones that are on at 4 a.m., right before the morning talk show. You know, the ones that talk about their new video camera and only got the job because they have no friends to hang out with in the daytime.
Now, about these stories. I have a tendency to over-analyze things. It's another one of my bad social habits. Plus, I'm not what you meant by "stories." Did you mean stories as in the last e-mail I sent where it's just a bunch of rablings. Or do you mean Oscar Wilde type fictional stories about walking hammers and the Ginswumps? I'll supply you with the latter in this e-mail just in case, but I'm just confused.
Oh, shoot, I just remembered something I was going to put in the third paragraph but decided to delay it due to that stalker joke. A few minutes after I read your mail, I received a reply from Talena as well (keep in mind the period that elapsed between the two replies being sent were really a few hours). But she only recommended a band due to the fact that "ther really was no subject to that email." So THAT is why people don't respond to me. I always felt angry that I was going all this work just for a short "thank you" or nothing at all. But now I realize that it's because I don't give them anything to respond with! Shooooooot! I always blew it off as a "they're not creative, funny, or smart enough to reply with anything." Except you. But that's because you're a celebrity. And celebrities aren't really people. Except Sammy Sosa. His video game commercials are hilarious! With no expression on his face he says in the most uninspired monotone voice: "Aie. Isso reeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaal." LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!! That's some brilliant stuff right there. I wish I were as funny as that. The best I can do are some esoteric jokes that only I understand. Although, I am creative enough to put Regis Philbin on my site banner. So that's got to count for something. It's the only explanation I can come up with for my site being #6 on the Top 50 Kittie Web Sites list. NUMBER F'N SIX!!!!! Who the heck is actually voting for my site?!?!? Who the heck is actually COMING to my site?!?!? I wish I could understand people. Just for a second. It would satisfy me sexually. [note: when re-reading message take that part out]
I also signed the Kittie guestbook. I checked back ten seconds later to read it over, and I found 15 people had signed the guestbook after me. This is no joke. I guess I'm happy that there are people with less of a life than me, but still, 15 people is ridiculous. STOP BEING SO (edit) POPULAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I saw a Kittie poster at my local Wherehouse tonight! Isn't that weird? Too much Kittie stuff in one day. I've overdosed on your band. I also threw an old tangerine at a bus. But that's a different story for a different e-mail to a different person from a different category of entertainment.
Ever try typing with chocolate chip mint cookie crumbs in your keyboard? tapcrunch tapcrunch tapcrunch shakeshakeshake rustlerustlerustle. Ugh, it's driving me crazy.
ARGH! PLEASE tell me you really didn't go to my site!!!!! Then tell me this all a bad acid flashback and that I'm going to wake up in a pool of my own urine and no one will have ever seen my site and life will just go on like a bad soap opera!!!!!!! WHY did I e-mail you in the first place?!?!?! What the hell was I thinking?!?!? It all started as a way to amuse myself but now it's gotten out of hand!!! Use your celebrity powers and make it all stop!!!!!
Yeah, making an e-mail address that won't allow you to filter out stuff like this was a really bad idea. You should hire an assistant or something. Wait, you did already, didn't you? This is really being read by some naked fat guy with glasses, isn't it? IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!!!!!!! I feel so much better. Now I know that the naked fat guy (hello, whoever you are) went to my site instead of the real Fallon. But then he (you) got bored and went to some porn site instead. >phew< Thank Buh Buh Ray Dudley! And Talena has done the same thing as well.
Okay, that was just absurd. But it's plausible. So I'm not completely throwing the idea out. On one hand, I'd like that since I wouldn't have made a fool out of myself to the real Fallon. On the other hand, I'd be angry that all my jokes were wasted on some dork with a toenail fetish.
I had a Red Bull energy drink today. Oddly, it tasted great. I didn't notice too much energy, though. It tastes like a cousin of lemon lime soda. An imbred, retard cousin, but a cousin nonetheless. Their commercials still need to die a horrible, horrible "Dif'frent Strokes" death.
Oh, that's right, stories! I knew I was forgetting something. I've tried writing stories before, but have lost interest after a few pages. One book was about The Crow. I was going to have cool fight scenes and people being blown up on every page. I then realized I'll never write a Crow story and changed the names around. So I was stuck with a very bad rip-off and deleted it. The other one I had was going to be about a rich millionaire who buys an island, goes there, and discovers a tribe of cannibals. Then, after they destroy his plane, he's trapped there. During the book, he's hunted by them and kills them. There was going to be a different guy dying in every paragraph. Then, in the end, he'd kill their cheif, eat his face, and become the new leader. But I was distracted by this girl next door who was faking an orgasm [note: during re-read change to "talking to birds"] and stopped after a few paragraphs.
I wrote this long surreal poem. It's some insane stuff that I've gotten from my dreams. I'd send it to you, but I'm incredibly paranoid about people passing my stuff off as theirs. Not anything against you, but I'm just scared someone would break into your house, go on your computer, read my e-mail, and then steal my poem.
Or that you'd print it out, show it to the other Kittie members, and you'd all laugh at me. Which is what you're doing with this e-mail, isn't it? THAT's why you want me to write you again! Well, now I'm on to you. You won't get away with it, either. I'll report you to the GBF. Then we'll see how much you laugh. The GBF doesn't take too kindly to your type! So be afraid! The GBF will be contacting you!
So, here's my story. My weird one. Yes, indeed. Oh, and it's too bad you're not an acid freak. But then again, Kurt Cobain said he wasn't a junkie. I believe you, but I'm holding on a to a vague shadow of a doubt just in case you really are an acid freak. I wish I were an acid freak. Those guys seem to have a lot of fun chasing after flying ink blots.
That wasn't my story. My weird one. I got side-tracked yet again. Here's the story; it's a dream I had:
I met one of the Furies in the bedroom of a God. I put my hands on her face and my hands turned into trees and rooted themselves into her newly shaved head. I saw ancient Greek civilizations flourish and live in harmony in her right ear; then I saw the Manson family flourish and live in harmony in her left ear. I looked up her nose and saw her brain, realizing that brains are ovals of colored energy, eyes have no color, they are transparent, they just show the color of one's brain, I realized there is no such thing as pigment, and that goes for the rest of the universe, there is no such thing as color, everything is transparent, the universal mind is just various colors, and objects, people, etc. just show one of those colors. In her mouth was a steel bondage chair, I caught a CleFallon that was beating Boris Karloff with a crucified bird and fed the fairy to the chair, and the CleFallon kicked her tongue in the groin; since no one told me to worship her, I did, for she is the new religion. To prove my purity in this belief, the clouds rained knives at me, but the soul of H.P. Lovecraft put a force field around my mind so the knives bounced harmlessly into the abyss, for Lovecraft knew the knives came from another religion. To thank him I gave him a quarter before walking through the turnstile of this amusement park. In the park I walked over God, who was embodied in a sea that no one had ever discovered before. I then scooped up this sea in my left hand and traded it for inspiration.
Yeah, that story sucked. I'll write a better one tomorrow. Yeah, I'm going to e-mail you every day for the rest of your life. Or until you delete this e-mail account. Which you won't because, by then, I'll have come up with good stories and all your psycho fans will have died of genital warts. So only I and maybe three other people will be e-mailing you. Um, I mean, that day will never come because the music industry really isn't a fickle life-sucking machine that will kill your career before the time you're legally able to destroy your liver with alcoholic beverages. Kittie will be around forever. Well, at least until the Apocalypse.
That was a real downer. I apologize for injecting reality into both our lives. WHY THE HELL AM I SUCH A JERK RIGHT NOW?!?!?! I don't understand it. That was very mean of me. I sincerely apologize for my past and future idiocies. Ugh! Now I know why I have no friends! It's 1:23 in the morning! I'm probably just tired. I'll go get some caffeine into my system. But if I start rambling about eating historical figures and puking them into one really famous person, just respond telling me never to e-mail you again, delete all my mail, and forget I was ever stupid enough to think this was funny!!!!! In the morning, I'll look back at this and laugh, but until then I'll wallow in self pity.
NOOO!!!! No self-pity, just lots and lots of video games. I captured Psyduck!!!! I captured Psyduck!!!!! I just played a Nintendo game called "Kid Icarus" for a half hour after typing that last sentence. You would've never know. Well, you won't ever know, anyway, because your mail is answered by a naked fat guy.

GARY COLEMAN!!!!

Yeah, that just came out of nowhere. Wow, it's 2:00 a.m. I better play some more video games before I pass out of exhaustion. Shoot, I still have people to e-mail. This is the only bad part of my day. So why do I complain so much? Must be that middle class thing. Well, have a good whatever time you're reading this at. And have a better whatever it is after the time you're done reading this.

A two-bit thrill with a momma nasty firearm,
-Trent