neverland appears to be untouched, but my email account has clearly been compromised. My apologies to folks who were in my contact list who may have received phishing emails with nefarious links. I'm migrating my email correspondence, at least temporarily, to a gmail domain.
I feel a little dirty and a lot violated. Someone touched my virtual things. He put his hands on my address book and impersonated me. Who was this shady character lurking in the shadows? Was he a socially retarded, morbidly obese slob on the order of Stieg Larsson's Plague, wallowing in his own filth and refuse and never seeing the light of day? I prefer to picture him as a young Johnny Lee Miller from Hackers: awkward tech geek with visions of anarchy, but above all, really, really, really hot.
I'd be okay with picturing him as Garrett Hedlund from Tron: Legacy, also a studmuffin hacker boy with a six pack and big, broad pecs. Really, if I'm going to get violated and virtually fucked over, I'd much prefer to suffer at the hands of a big, hot hunk, than a pimple-ridden, value-less adolescent with delusional visions of grandeur because he can co-opt my email account to send malicious crap.
Seriously, this shit sucks and makes me a little sour on having an online presence at all. If my violator is Plague, who has to climb over his own delivery pizza boxes to make it to the toilet (if he bothers), then all of my earnest, sincere effort to explore the beauty of homoerotic wrestling and gorgeous men suddenly seems like just a little more trash littering his filthy loft. I'm suddenly struggling with an existential crisis here, my friends. What does it all amount to, if what seems like a beautiful thing to me is toilet paper to the next hacker who picks it up and wipes his butt with it?
On the other hand, if my hacker is a hot, snarky homo with a little Loki in him, nursing a bit of a heel-wannabe mischievousness just to keep us all on our toes, perhaps I shouldn't despair. If I can replace the image of Plague rifling through my underwear drawer with the picture of a handsome, wicked smart, scrappy punk with a razor wire sense of humor and a body built by much more than roosting in front of a computer screen, maybe I shouldn't be quite so disillusioned. If this is all some elaborate ruse to get my attention like a naughty puppy shredding my manuscript so that I'll play with him, maybe this doesn't merit a full on existential crisis. If he's really just itching to arrange a face-to-face for me to kick his tight, athletic ass back and forth across the room, claw his balls until he screams, and crush his skull between my thighs as I jack his cock until he cums, then well-played. Game on.
For now, though, I'm irritated, bitter, and wondering if the lurker in the shadows will end up taking all the fun out of this for me.