Reasons you haven’t answered my e-mail:

  1. You put your phone and computer in the microwave to see what would happen
  2. You are writing me a sonnet in reply, and are finding it hard to get a particularly clever rhyming enjambment between the eleventh and twelfth lines to mesh with the iambic pentameter. You must sacrifice either the rhyme or the metre, and are agonizing over this decision, due to your high regard for my poetic discernment.
  3. You took part in a “who can hold onto a lit firework for the longest” competition with your buddies, and are now missing many of your fingers, thus decreasing your word per minute querty capabilities. (You may think this kind of a competition is a particularly sinister imagining of my unhealthy mind, but it has real world precedent. I used to date an emergency doctor in the UK, who once had to treat a whole visiting Polish football team that had drunkenly participated in this fun male bonding ritual. They had gruesome injuries – some lacking thumbs and fingers, presenting bloodied digits wrapped in rags like terrifying little gifts. They were still ossified drunk and apparently in quite good spirits. Hand injuries like that are rare, and, if I remember the story correctly, London only has about 3 surgeons who can fix them, only one of whom was on call. Now, isn’t that just the stuff of nightmares? You are welcome).
  4. You are on a silent Buddhist retreat, and, right now, are meditating on the Ajna chakra, sending me psychic messages in lieu of an e-mail. (I have been working hard to tune into these, but perhaps my spiritual insight is not yet sufficiently honed?)
  5. You have become an obsessive and devoted prepper, and are eschewing modern communication in favour of carrier pigeons. You are raising the chicks on your balcony. (If this is the case, I commend you, as the birds can also provide nourishment and perhaps even companionship when the apocalypse comes.)
  6. You never existed. I hallucinated all of our dates, and, during an episode of somnambulance, even set up an alternative e-mail address in your name, which I am now messaging. Your lack of response is the conscious manifestation of my subconscious masochism.
  7. Entirely by coincidence, my e-mail replicated a secret code whereby every seventh letter, read in sequence, communicates the following: “Ya boo sucks to you stink face I don’t like your ears they are weird ha ha.” You are deeply offended. (I didn’t mean it. Your ears are nice)
  8. You are dead.
  9. Last night when I fell off a skyscraper and a masked figure swooped down and caught me and placed me gently on the ground and then we made out and they disappeared, that was actually you. You don’t want to blow your cover.
  10. Nope. That’s all I got.

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