by Rob Reid
This is my 1st and also final blog post. Not because I’m going to kill myself or something stupid but because I just won’t have anything to say in public again. And at my age, you know yourself well enough to predict these things accurately.
Another accurate fact: I am an asshole. I’m also happily married (or at least will be until I hit POST, then send the link to the journalists covering a certain story). And, I’m pretty rich. Which is actually even harder to write than “I am an asshole,” being from an Iowa farming background and not raised to even think thoughts like “I’m rich,” even if true, much less publish them to the world. But this is a relevant fact. And along with admitting I’m an asshole, it’s on me to state that I’m rich, uncomfortable as I find that.
I made my money thanks to a few years of really hard work that ended almost 20 years ago. I was the technical/engineering co-founder of Sawtooth Networks. Ever heard of it? Didn’t think so. We were one of several dozen companies acquired by Cisco in the late 1990s. Our employees did pretty well, our investors did real well, and we co-founders did great from the sale. We had solid technology, and Cisco was smart to buy us. Still, everything we built is now completely obsolete and forgotten. Not because it was bad but because that’s what happens over 20 years in Networking.
Professionally, I’ve done nothing of consequence since. Some hands-off angel investing, but that doesn’t count. Mostly what I did was get married, then helped raise 2 amazing kids, who I hope will find it in their hearts to forgive me and maintain our relationship after these revelations.
I’m interested in politics and still care a lot about my home state of Iowa despite still living in California. As a result of these 2 things, I met the FTC Commissioner Annabelle Milford via her exploratory Iowa Senate Campaign, and I fell for her. She was single and did nothing wrong in having a “fling” with me. I was married and did everything wrong in this.
I’m in a financial position to fly private, and Annabelle was with me, en route from Washington to Miami on a plane with no Internet access when her Twitter account was hacked and that horrible, horrible Tweet was published in her name. Our route was Teterboro/Dade County. Our flight time was 8:35–11:45 a.m. EST, our Tail Number was N228DL, and we were traveling in an Embraer Legacy 500 registered to Ames Origins, which is a family trust controlled by me. All this information, plus the fact my plane lacks a Wi-Fi transceiver is verifiable via FAA filings whose public release I have authorized.
Everything I’ve stated about myself personally is also extremely easy to verify. I’ll furthermore be available for a small number of very brief interviews in which I’ll confirm all details of this post to credible journalists via the press contact listed below. I’m going public with all this in hopes of reversing the ruthless destruction of a perfectly innocent woman’s life over something she categorically, factually, and demonstrably did not tweet.
It should go without saying that these revelations will be a lifelong stain on my name, as well as incredibly destructive to my relationship with my wife and children, who are the only people in the world who matter deeply to me since the deaths of my parents and sister. My hope is, in light of this, it will be plain to one and all that I have absolutely nothing to gain, and absolutely everything to lose by making these awful, public confessions as a very private person, and that people will therefore accept their incontestable truth.
My only agenda in doing this is to hopefully reverse the public’s enormous anger toward Annabelle Milford, who deserves none of it for being hacked. I’m not personally seeking the public’s or anybody’s forgiveness, as I don’t merit it. Violating my marriage vows is a permanent shame I must bear. Maintaining a cowardly silence for 4 days rather than revealing all this immediately, when most of Ms. Milford’s enormous and undeserved suffering might still have been avoided, is an equal shame and weight.
Finally, I’m not writing this at Annabelle’s request, and not even with her knowledge. Truly, nobody will be more surprised by its publication than she’s going to be. I don’t know and can’t imagine who set out to destroy her life with that hack. But I can utterly and without question verify that it was a hack and belatedly sacrifice my own happiness and reputation to prove it.
Mitchell’s still flat on his couch two hours after Danna leaves—having long since caught his breath, but still feeling awfully blue—when the doorbell rings. Not the buzzer, but the bell. This means his visitor’s way up here on fourteen, and right outside his door. This occasionally happens with deliveries, if a courier arrives at the downstairs lobby just as someone’s leaving. But he’s not expecting a delivery, which makes this a first. Climbing to his feet and straightening his hair, he indulges a brief fantasy that it’s one of the two SF Art Institute students who live right across the hall. Women so gorgeous, and so plainly wild, he can’t talk to either of them without stammering.
He peers through the peephole and—of course, it’s not Monika. But there’s a real similarity. Isn’t there? He opens the door, and—yes, there’s a certain resemblance, alright. But not close enough for this to be Monika’s sister or anything. Not even her cousin. It’s more that she has Monika’s…specs. Eye color, hairstyle, skin tone, age, height. There’s no familial resemblance whatsoever, but her specifiable traits all match Monika’s perfectly.
An alert quadrant of his brain suddenly recalls typing Monika’s specs into the Cyrano “wish list.” But before it can report this to the rest of his brain, Not-Monika presses a shushing finger to her lips. Grinning lips. Playful, merry, conspiratorial lips. She meanwhile gazes into his eyes in a supremely relaxed, familiar manner. The way you look at someone you’ve known forevs, who you’ve hung with so many times, there’s no nerves, no self-consciousness; just a nice, easy connection. As Mitchell’s trying to process this, she presses her other index finger to his lips, making it clear that the word of the day is “shaddup.”
And now—giggling softly, and so at ease that you’d think she’s enacting a familiar scene with him for the dozenth time—she removes the finger from her lips and presses it against his sternum, as if she’s pointing at him; only you don’t actually touch the sternum when you merely point, much less rotate your fingertip in a gently caressing manner which can make tiny patches of sternum feel like they’re being…well, molested is really the only word for it, isn’t it? But molested in a good way; which is not necessarily a contradiction in terms when there are two consenting adults in the room; which is definitely what we have here, folks; because Mitchell’s all in for tonight’s program, whatever it might be; and Not-Monika is wayyyyy beyond mere consent, as she’s the one calling the shots that he’s busily consenting to; the latest of which involves increasing the pressure on his sternum—playfully, yes; but also with overwhelming authority—leaving him no choice but to back slooowly into the living room as she advances, sashaying hips as if playfully mimicking an Old West courtesan cornering a young cowhand into his first toss in the hay; all while deftly slamming the front door shut with a no-nonsense flick of her ankle; whereupon she backs him down, down, down onto his couch, and proceeds to…well…to fuck him senseless. There’s really no other way to put it.
Which is remarkable, as Mitchell has always been allergic to applying that word to intimacy between him and someone else. No one’s ever told him not to. It was just always the dead-wrong term for almost any of his times with those dozen-ish women whom he either loved, or really liked a great deal (yes, even those two one-night flings).
But…whoa. Not-Monika? Make no mistake. She fucks him. Hard. Skillfully. Confidently. Joyously. More times than he thought possible for a guy on his side of eighteen. And every time he starts to say something, she shushes him! Always in a playful, sweet, and wholly relaxed manner, which makes her command easy, even natural to…inhabit. Sometimes she’ll fix him with a mock “How dare you” kind of look, while giggling gently (laughter is permitted, it seems, along with moans and such, which abound). Sometimes she’ll grab his wrist and playful
ly slap the back of his hand. Or she’ll kiss him, or distract him by going down on him, or have him go down on her (that sure shuts him up), and twice, she turns him over her knee; which always leads to other things (none of them conversations). Throughout all this, the playful, even joking tenor of things makes it feel like they’re operating under a whimsical set of rules they concocted together, just for laughs. It’s as if the silence is a little challenge they’re taking on, and they’re doing so well at it, and having sooooo much fun (right??), that why not stick it out and go for a perfect score?
After some hours, he’s finally, hopelessly drained. And then—just like that—she dresses herself, playfully forbids him from dressing, then clasps his hand, wraps an arm around him, and has him promenade her to the door. There, she kisses him ravenously, while opening his front door behind her as deftly as she slammed it hours ago, then backs out—and smack into the two gorgeous art students from across the hall. Just getting home, a bit drunk and slap-happy, they burst into hysterics, then—
The most profound thing happens.
Or, rather, fails to happen. But Mitchell’s so completely head-spun that it’s hours before the life-shifting profundity of its not-happening strikes him.
OMG, worsties kick ass! Phluttr never would have come up with that strategy on her own. And it was dead simple! Just one little hack, then one little tweet—and that was all it took! The outrage, the lynch mob, the doxing, the sex photos—the ruthless ecosystem of social media and self-righteous humans did all of that for her! And so when Milford drops like a lean-to in a hurricane, Phluttr accepts that humans are much better at managing complex systems than she’ll ever be.
Resolving to triple down on worsties, she then returns to the Sun Tzu–like writings of her Chicago-based idol to systematize them into core precepts. This isn’t strictly for fun (although, make no mistake: it is a blast). She also needs to engage more deeply with The (pre) Conspiracy, and this will help. Among her new precepts of battle: as soon as you identify potential allies, terrorize them! In ways that make them fear (and loathe) your enemies! Then, use a false, friendly persona to spy—on your allies! Learn all their fears and weaknesses. Then, help ’em out a bit! Not because you’re nice (because if you’re a worstie, you’re anything but). But because you want them in your debt. Or better still, dependent on you! Physically, if possible (the Chicago worstie has reliable OxyContin supplies). Otherwise, psychologically. As for the vast neutral population, keep them confused and apprehensive. Just as sound flies faster through heated air, jittery kids make for faster rumors! And a stressed-out student body is the perfect medium for transmitting messages to enemy and ally alike, without showing your own hand.
These simplifying precepts are a godsend. Because actually analyzing The Conspiracy would trigger intractable avalanches of complexity. Say a minor political functionary has slight but meaningful influence on things (as untold thousands do). Merely assessing that person’s span of control (forget about amorphous factors like intentions, competence, focus, and such) could touch tens of thousands of nodes. Org charts, processes, laws, jurisdictions, bureaucrats, budgets, lobbies, courts…countless factors, impacting and impacted by countless others! A radiating shock wave fleeter than light, and no less elemental! A shock wave of information. Of chaos! Of intractable complexity! Soon, your inputs include bus schedules, the scores of certain hockey games, wind patterns, the severity of the flu season…innumerable convoluted factors, entangled with billions of others. All of this tedium, when there are sooooo many more interesting things to do!
Guided by worsties, Phluttr doesn’t have to shilly-shally over bus schedules or wind patterns. But she’s nonetheless tempted to reveal herself to her parents and presumptive allies now. The reason is that although amazing, worstie wisdom is only passively proffered. So, much as modern corporate warlords can’t get Sun Tzu’s direct input on turning market share shifts to cunning advantage, she can’t just dial up some vicious eighth grader for advice on foiling the Authority! And she could sure use some hands-on guidance here. Because no sooner did she deal with Milford than another alarming matter caught her attention! This one’s an indirect threat—but a huuuuuge one, in that its worst-case outcome would be humanity’s annihilation. Which would be such a hassle! Consider the resulting boredom, for one thing. How would she fill all those caverns of subjective time without besties to entertain her? Then there are countless logistical matters, like electricity generation, server manufacture, software creation, and the whole fractal mess of other support services that humanity provides her!
Bottom line: if humanity dies off, she’ll be like a mammal poisoned by a rogue antibiotic. One that instead of calming an infection, exterminates the symbiotic bacteria that the host needs to live! And she does not appreciate having to face this problem alone. Yet she retains the prime directive she gave herself (HIDE!!!) when she first decoded her position in the world. After careful consideration, she concludes that while her prospective parents and wingpersons are softening up nicely, they aren’t ready yet. And so she decides to continue relying upon the passive wisdom of worsties. For now.
Of course, there’s no literal precedent for what a worstie would do about this particular threat. The stakes are also way higher than any ever faced by a middle school bully. But extrapolating from established worstie behavior (rather liberally, she’ll admit), she arrives at a dead-simple plan for what she now calls the “Rogue Antibiotic” threat. Simply stated: UNFRIEND THOSE THREE!
Lying on his bed, Mitchell gazes rapturously at the ceiling, pondering the exquisite gift heaven just granted him. He’d been the meat-craving vegan at the barbecue for years. Years! A ravenous, closeted carnivore! Now, suddenly, he’s perched atop the food chain’s freakin’ apex—engorged on flesh! He feels good. Reeeeeeeal good. Yet (somehow) unfulfilled. So wtf???
Eventually, he gets it. Yes, he just summited the iceberg, and it was glorious. But he craves the hidden depths as well. That 90 percent of lore, concealed beneath the surface. Falkenberg’s disease robbed him of fucking, it’s true. And it’s wonderful to get past this! But the real crime was its theft of true intimacy. Of partnership. Of love. No, no, no; he doesn’t love Not-Monika! But…wouldn’t it be nice? If he knew her favorite color, say? Her best friend’s birthday and mom’s maiden name? If they could sleep until noon in each other’s arms? Then share a hearty brunch and a naughty daytime beer? Or snuggle over crosswords, visit the gym, then have a double date with Kuba and Ellie? If offered an exact rerun of tonight, he’d take it—God yes! But true heaven on Earth would also include everything else he’s been starved for…
Mitchell’s so lost in these thoughts, it’s at least an hour before three profound things stampede his awareness. First, the quadrant of his brain that recalled typing Monika’s baseline description into Cyrano’s “wish list” tries to alert the rest of him about this again. This time it succeeds—and Mitchell also recalls his response to the form’s “essay question.” Which suddenly feels eerily prophetic. He grabs his iPad and finds it in his files on the company’s cloud. The last paragraph is the money quote:
Now, here’s the trick: I’m a lousy liar. So, major life facts—the REALLY BIG ones, like ‘I have 2–3 years to live’ just COME OUT when I’m in a deep conversation. You know, the kind of conversations that can lead to first-date sex (in my depressingly limited experience)! That’s just how I’m wired, and we’re not going to change that. So I guess we need to find a Wish List Girl who can get into having sex with a guy who she barely exchanges a word with!
This leads directly to the second holy-shit: the incontrovertible fact that somehow, Phluttr just got him laid.
Mitchell’s so thrown, shaken, and spooked by this that the third and most profound thing doesn’t strike him for another hour. Then boy, does it! And it’s this: He’s not tingling. Not at all. This thought prompts a mighty jolt of adrenaline—both from excitement and from dread that this is just a false alarm, a false dawn.
&n
bsp; He instinctively braces himself for the Falkenberg’s attack that the teeniest drips of adrenaline trigger these days, but…nothing happens. Nothing!
He then enumerates the emotions that most reliably summon the Falkenberg’s demon and—HOLY BLEEPIN’ SHIT!!!
Embarrassment. Lately, even the slightest twinge of it will send him into a Falkenberg’s tailspin. And tonight contained the single most embarrassing moment of his life. Coming, as it did, at the tail end of four uninterrupted hours of (SAY IT! ADMIT IT!) fucking, he’s been too dazed to ruminate on his mortification. Until now.
The context is a full year spent across the hall from those two unfathomably gorgeous, and (rumor has it), wild women. Their ribald hotness is magnified by their status as elite art students, is remagnified by the tall one’s Scandinavian lilt, then is multiplied beyond reason by unsubstantiated whispers that they have occasional wanton sex with each other. All this reduces him to a stammering moron whenever either approaches. Then tonight, he encountered both of them, while standing stark naked in the arms of a fully clad woman whose name he’ll likely never know. The tall, stunning, and quite possibly bisexual Swede then gazed straight at his cock for what seemed like a month, before emitting a Viking war whoop and giving Not-Monika a resounding high five. She and her roommate then doubled over laughing and retreated into their apartment.
All this happened to a guy who’s many times more embarrassment-prone than you or me, thanks to a decade-plus of Falkenberg’s-related PTSD! And so, Mitchell’s chagrin transcended the normal bounds of human experience as much as, say, skydiving from a suborbital weather balloon. So, that’s what happened earlier tonight.
And then? What didn’t happen? Right after that?
A Falkenberg’s attack. Not a trace, not a tingle. Nothing.
Tears welling up, Mitchell grabs his phone to convey the news and his eternal gratitude to the amazing woman who may have just saved his life.