Not Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of This Spam Email Because Ignoring My Personal Boundaries Is Always A Deal-Breaker No Matter How Compatible We Might Seem In Other Ways

When Mork meets the physical manifestation of spam email, he’s not sure what to make of this handsome hovering envelope. This living concept, named Gilburn, seems like a perfect match for Mork, and after their first date the two of them appear to be on the fast-track to love.

Unfortunately, that’s when Mork starts to notice some unwanted emails creeping into his unread messages.

Now Mork is standing up against this invasion of his personal space, showing that proving love doesn’t always mean forgiveness for other people, it also means proving love to yourself by dismissing those who ignore your limits.

This important tale is 4,300 words of holding boundaries and non-sexual conflict between buds, including standing up for yourself, setting a junk mail filter, and blocking any contact from someone who doesn’t deserve it.

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NOT POUNDED BY THE PHYSICAL MANIFESTATION OF THIS SPAM EMAIL BECAUSE IGNORING MY PERSONAL BOUNDARIES IS ALWAYS A DEAL-BREAKER NO MATTER HOW COMPATIBLE WE MIGHT SEEM IN OTHER WAYS

By Chuck Tingle

I take the tennis ball and grip it tight in my hand, tempting Rocko as he stares up at me with an enthusiastic smile. My dog is poised and ready, his eyes bright and blue as his canine lips curl back in an unabashed grin. His tail is wagging so hard it seems like it my fly off at any moment.

I hesitate the slightest bit, letting the anticipation build and then hurl my tennis ball across the park as hard as I can.

The brilliant sphere bounces a few times before Rocko has a chance to catch up with it, the dog opening his jaws wide as he makes an attempt to snatch this gracefully sailing orb in midair. Unfortunately, my pup’s coordination leaves plenty to be desired. Instead of chomping down on the ball, he ends up booping it with the tip of his nose, greatly altering the trajectory and sending his mark flying off in a completely different direction.

We’ve been playing on this wide open field for a while now with no problems, plenty of space for Rocko and I while a group of friends play frisbee to our left and a picnic sets up to the right. This particular throw doesn’t disturb the others, fortunately, but as my tennis ball careens off into the nearby woods, I find myself with a whole new set of problems.

“Rocko!” I cry out, immediately breaking into a sprint as I watch my dog gallop into the forest, chasing down his beloved yellow orb.

I hustle across the field, my worry elevating with every step.

This section of the park swiftly transitions from flat grass to a steep, tree-covered ravine, the slope meandering down some thirty yards until it reaches a winding creek below. I’m not so worried that Rocko will fall and hurt himself — my dog is young and spry after all — but there’s a distinct possibility that I might lose track of him and our little afternoon at the park could turn into a short hike through the woods.

A more likely, and equally unfortunate scenario, is that my tennis ball rolls into the creek and I have to drive home with a mud-covered dog.

I reach the edge of the slope and peer down into this ravine, my eyes scanning the gentle waterway below. “Rocko?”
 My fears are immediately quelled when I spot my smiling, happy dog standing next to an unexpected figure, the two of them sharing a moment together down by the creek.

A massive floating letter is standing next to my pup, patting Rocko gently on the head. Rocko’s tail is wagging with just as much enthusiasm as before, which is pretty shocking given the circumstances.

Like most dogs, my canine companion has a massive aversion to anything mail-related, whether that’s a postal worker dropping off a package on the front porch or a sentient letter like this one.

Despite all that, Rocko seems happier than ever, wearing an enormous grin as his new friend hands over the tennis ball. Rocko takes the ball in his mouth, then starts prancing around happily.

I carefully make my way down the slope, waving to this massive sentient envelope.

“Hey!” I call out, offering a wave as I make my approach.

The living letter smiles warmly, extending his hand and offering a firm shake. “Hey there,” he replies. “I’m guessing this is your buddy?”

I nod. “Yep, I’m Mork Torky.”

“Gilburn Chooms” the letter offers in return.

Now that I’m up close it’s impossible to deny just how breathtakingly handsome this floating paper rectangle really is. His smile is warm and inviting, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye that would make anyone a little curious.

It’s only when I retract my hand that I notice the tools Gilburn has with him. There’s a plastic bag sitting on the ground, filled to the brim with trash, and he’s brandishing a long plastic claw to collect even more.

“Oh,” I blurt, a little taken aback by just how charming this is. “Are you down here collecting garbage?”

“Sure am,” Gilburn replies. “I like to take a little stroll on the weekends and clean up the park.”

I nod along, unable to stop the grin that’s creeping its way across my face.

“Eliminating paper waste is really important to me,” the letter continues.

“That’s a little surprising,” I retort with a chuckle. “You’re a sentient letter.”

Gilburn shakes his head. “You’d think that, right?” he counters. “I’m actually not a living object, I’m a living concept.”

I raise my eyebrows, nodding along but quickly realizing I’ve stepped into a world I know nothing about. “Really?” is all I can think to say, struggling to seem hip enough that this revelation doesn’t take me off guard.

Gilburn hesitates slightly. I can tell he’s not sure if he should continue down this path, weighing his options.

Finally, however, he makes the leap.

“I’m actually the physical manifestation of spam email,” he admits.

The second Gilburn says this I can feel my body tense up. Like most people, I’m not exactly a fan of having my inbox flooded with endless streams of advertisements and phishing scams.

Then again, what exactly is spamemail? I’ve signed up for some fantastic newsletters that appear in my inbox to great enjoyment, and plenty of the advertising junk mail I get alerts me to big sales at some of my favorite stores.

He’s also helping out the environment, which is hard to see as anything other than a huge win. For every piece of digital junk in my email, that’s one less piece of real junk mail floating around in the world. Based on Gilburn’s current activities, it appears he actually does care about this point.

All things considered, I suppose spam emails are a mixed bag.

Maybe.

“That’s cool,” I finally offer, doing my best to maintain a casual demeanor.

Gilburn tosses the tennis ball back to me. “Here you go,” he says, then turns back and continues his path picking up trash down the edge of the creek.

Rocko returns to my side, but I can tell my dog is a little disappointed to be leaving his new friend. The pup keeps glancing back over his shoulder, making sure the letter is still there.

“Hey!” I call out, prompting Gilburn to stop in his tracks and turn back around to face me. “You wanna go out for drinks sometime?”

The physical manifestation of spam email nods, then reapproaches.

“Just enter your email here and I’ll message you,” he offers, an oblong input field appearing below him.  A hovering digital keypad floats below it.

I’m a little startled, but I go along with it, typing out my email address and then slapping the enter key. The rectangular input space dissolves promptly, accepting my response.

“Great!” Gilburn announces. “We’ll be in touch.”

We part ways again, this time for good. As my dog and I head up the hillside, back onto the open field above, I can’t help but wonder where this little adventure will take me.

My eyes are glued to the television set, mesmerized by the story that unfolds before me. I’ve spent most of this evening leaning back against the soft cushions of my couch, settled in and comfortable, but now I’m leaning forward with rapt attention. Rocko can sense the tension, no longer curled up next to me but sitting upright and ready for anything.

My living room TV displays the handsome, chiseled face of Keith the Jet Plane, a card-counting sentient vehicle with a heart of gold who’s gotten in over his head. Through a series of action-packed events, this gambler is now forced to choose between counting cards or the love of his life.

Keith turns his enormous silver body, facing the camera as it zooms in on his face.

“There’s only one thing I can count on in this world,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes. “And that’s… what I’m about to reveal.”

The television suddenly cuts to a commercial, prompting a disappointed groan to erupt from my mouth. I settle back, grabbing my laptop and opening it up in an effort to kill time before the big reveal.

I check my social media first, then jump over to email hoping something interesting might’ve come in.

A fresh message rests at the top of my screen.

“Italian dinners now ten percent off at the Spaghetti Barn,” I read aloud.

I’m about to drag this advertisement to my trash bin when I notice who sent it: Gilburn Chooms.

I furrow my brow then open up the email, cautiously reading the text.

Tonight only, we’re offering ten percent off your meal. Come join me at seven for a fantastic date.

I reread this message a few times, not entirely sure if this is a real email or just a massive blast of spam that’s currently flooding a thousand different inboxes.

“What do you think?” I ask Rocko. “Should I reply?”

My pup just wags his tail, apparently quite enthusiastic about this idea.

I type back a simple confirmation, then hit send.

Gilburn responds immediately. ‘See you there.’

Looks like I need to get off the couch and get ready for a date at the spaghetti barn.

I turn off the television and spring into action, climbing to my feet and heading off to get changed. My mind is already swirling with all kinds of questions, struggling to hypothesize about how this date will turn out. On one hand, this physical manifestation is very attractive and seems like a sweet guy. On the other hand, his approach has been nothing short of bizarre.

When I’m finally ready to go I give Rocko a sweet pat and head out the door.

The drive is quick, and soon enough I’m pulling into the Spaghetti Barn parking lot.

I spot Gilburn the second I walk in, this massive letter waving to me from his booth in the back. He stands up to greet me as I approach, offering a warm hug that immediately puts me at ease and tilts the night towards a potential success.

“I’m so glad you came,” Gilburn gushes, finally releasing and motioning for me to sit.

“Glad to be here,” I reply.

The two of us slide into our booth and a waiter swiftly arrives, offering to get us started with drink orders. We each get a cold glass of chocolate milk.

“How was the rest of your trash pickup?” I ask as the waiter leaves.

Gilburn smiles. “Oh, fantastic. I was in a bit of a hurry, but I managed to clean the whole place. The creek is sparkling now.”

“Where’d you have to be?” I continue.

Gilburn genuinely considers this, mentally recounting his schedule. “Well, first I went to the food bank to help out a bit. I volunteer there every weekend. Then I returned some books to the library.”

“What are you reading?” I question.

“Chuck Tingle,” Gilburn replies.

What the hell is happening? Is this some kind of joke or am I dating the perfect man?

The waiter returns with our drinks, prompting the physically manifested spam email and me to make our selections. A true gentleman, he motions for me to go first, then chuckles to himself when I make my order of spaghetti and vegan meatballs.

“I’ll have exactly the same thing,” the living concept states.

“Whoa,” replies the waiter. “Looks like the two of you have a lot in common.”

Gilburn and me lock eyes as our waiter strolls away, a little taken aback by this moment. I’d usually brush this off as a moment of random coincidence, but as the romantic tension between us continues to blossom, it’s hard to deny just how special our connection might be.

“You think he’s right?” I question. “I don’t really know that much about you yet.”

The spam email laughs. “Okay, how about this. I’ll ask a question and we both have to answer on the count of three.”

I nod in confirmation. “Sure.”

“What’s your favorite movie?” Gilburn posits. “Three, two, one.”

“Space Raptor Butt Invasion!” we both announce at the same time, then gasp in shock.

“Best musician ever?” the sentient spam email continues. “Three, two, one.”

“Bruce Hornsby!” we cry out in unison.

At this point I can’t help myself as any apprehension crumbles away, the walls I’d been maintaining finally toppling in a cloud of dust. There is a real connection here.

We spend the rest of the evening joking and laughing with one another, telling stories and diving in deep to the things that make us tick. Gilburn isn’t afraid to cut out the small talk, which I actually appreciate.

By the end of the meal I find myself in awe of this sentient spam email. I couldn’t imagine this evening going any better, and right when I think this to myself it does. The bill arrives — ten percent off.

“Oh, whoa,” I stammer. “I completely forgot about that.”

Gilburn immediately takes the check and pulls it away from me, throwing down his credit card and handing our check back to the waiter.

I start to protest but the physical manifestation just shakes his handsome head.

“Thank you,” I offer instead.

We end the evening with a little stroll. There’s a promenade nearby, and while most of the shops are closed, it’s still a beautiful landscape complete with a winding river and two glorious fountains at either end.

Our pace is slow and deliberate, not yet wanting this magical evening to end.

“I feel like we’ve known each other for a really long time,” I offer. “It’s kind of incredible. Have you ever felt like this before?”

“I meet a lot of people in my line of work,” the spam email offers. “I’ve never met anyone like you, though.”

A surge of attraction pulses through my body, the wave of sensation feeling like a fever of some kind as it swells and then dissipates within.

“Well, I had a lot of fun tonight,” I offer, the two of us standing by car as the fountains churn magically behind us.

“Definitely,” Gilburn replies. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

We exchange a quick kiss before parting ways, Gilburn floating off into the darkness of the night while I return to my car.

I second I step through the front door Rocko is all over me, my excited pup slobbering gleefully as he leaps and dances.

“Hey buddy,” I offer, rubbing my dog behind the ears in a display of affection that only seems to double his excitement. “You wanna go out?”

I’ve been away all night, which means despite the late hour of my return, it’s still not time for bed. I need to take Rocko for a little walk around the block, but this particular evening the stroll is will be appreciated. I’ve got a lot of thoughts swirling around in this little head of mine, and by now any doubt about my attraction to Gilburn has been fully consumed by the ravenous hunger of blossoming romance.

I put on Rocko’s collar and the two of us head out onto the sidewalk, beginning our journey. The fresh evening air feels glorious against my skin, and the joyful thumping of my heart plays on like a dance beat. I’ve heard people say they’ve got a spring in their step before, but this is the first time I remember actually feeling it.

I round the corner, the first of many that will eventually complete a full loop through my neighborhood.

Suddenly, a loud digital ping rings out through the night air.

I pull out my phone to see that I’ve received a new email from Gilburn Chooms, the subject staring back at me in brilliant bold lettering.

I expect a nice message about what a fun evening we had together, a simple way to cap off the night, but instead I discover something else lurking within my inbox.

“Now this is a deal for you Mork Torky,” I read aloud. “Open up for savings!”

I open the email and begin to read, discovering that a flower store downtown is having a thirty percent off sale on roses.”

This message is breathtakingly impersonal, but I suppose it could’ve been worse. He’s writing to me about flowers, after all, which is thoughtful. I probably would’ve rather he bought me some instead of just sending a coupon, but I suppose this is better than nothing.

I hit reply and type out a response.

Thanks for thinking of me, I offer. If I’m near the shop I’ll check this out.

I send this message and slip my phone back into my pocket, but before I can get another two steps it rings out again with that same digital chime. I check my device, seeing that two more messages have arrived.

You won’t believe these prices is the subject line of the first one.

The second one asks: are you giving her enough in the bedroom?

“I’m gay,” I mumble to myself, shaking my head in confusion.

I consider typing out a quick response, asking whether or not Gilburn meant to send me those emails, then swiftly delete my message. Instead, I call him.

The phone rings just once before the sentient physical manifestation of spam email picks up.

“Hey!” Gilburn says. “You miss me already?”

“Hi,” I start, trying to remain cool and collected. “I just got back home, I’m walking Rocko now.”

“Awesome, I really did have a great time tonight,” the living concept offers.

“Me too,” I assure him. “It’s just… I think there’s something wrong with your email.”

“Oh really?” he questions. “Sorry about that.”

I wave of relief immediately washes through me. Everyone has problems with their tech sometimes, like an email ending up in the wrong folder or disappearing between the digital cracks. The messages seemed a little strange, but that’s because Gilburn didn’t mean to send them.

I laugh to myself.

“Did you not get any messages from me?” the living spam email questions. “Is that what’s wrong? Because I sent you three so far.”
 The emotional whiplash hits hard, immediately yanking my emotions back in the other direction.

“Wait, what?” I blurt, shaking my head instinctively. “So you meant to send those emails?”

“I just saw a few deals I thought you might like,” Gilburn retorts.

I let out a long sigh, growing frustrated. Rocko can immediately sense a change in my emotional state, the pup staring up at me and cocking his head to the side.

My dog loves going on walks, but he’s anxious to head back now.

“You there?” the sentient physical manifestation of spam email questions.

“Yeah,” I retort. “Listen, I’m excited about the connection we made, but the constant emailing is a little much. I need more space when it’s this early in the process of getting to know someone.”

There’s a brief silence on the line. “I understand,” Gilburn finally retorts. “I’m sorry. Do you get notifications on your phone or something?”

“Yeah,” I confirm.

“Aw shit,” the living concept moans. “I didn’t realize. I just saw some cool stuff I thought you might like, and I figured you’d see it all at one time tomorrow morning. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I reply, chuckling at how awkward this has suddenly become and struggling to move past it. “In the future, how about you only send me the deals that really, reallymatter. Okay?

“Got it,” Gilburn replies.

“I’ll see you soon,” I offer, then hang up.

Rocko’s still gazing at me, just as uncertain as I am.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s head back,” I announce.

I awaken slightly groggy and out of sorts, not at all the typical good rest I’ve found myself accustomed to. I used to sleep light, but it caused so many problems that I eventually decided to invest in a nice set of sheets and some fancy earplugs to keep out the noise.

I sit up, struggling to gather my bearings as I take note of the light fluttering in through the nearby curtains. I feel terrible.

This has happened before, unfortunately, and it’s usually a sign the Rocko has been getting into mischief around the house, knocking things over and pulling me in and out of my sleep cycles for a wholly unsatisfactory experience.

Rocko sits quietly next to me, however, his body planted in its usual spot. He seems downright stoic, assuming the role of some quiet protector.

“What is it, Rocko?” I question, reaching out and scratching his head a bit.

A familiar chime rings through the air, immediately pulling my attention to the phone that sits quietly on my bedside table.

While I’m looking at this device it chimes again, which sends a cold wave of dread through my body.

I slowly reach out and grab the device, treating it like a haunted artifact as I cringe with tense anticipation. I check for new emails.

There are seven thousand, two-hundred and four unread messages.

I can feel my breath catch in my throat as I read this.

I close my eyes, then open them again to see if this alert has somehow melted away.

There are seven thousand, two-hundred and four unread messages.

“Well fuck,” I loudly announce.

I open the application and start taking in a myriad of subject lines, every single message coming direct from the address of Gilburn Chooms.

Lonely T-Rexes looking to chat!

Did you log into your Tingletalk account? Please confirm your identity in three easy steps.

Buy one subscription to Heavy Metal Unicorn Monthly get one additional subscription for your lawyer.

Your computer has been infected with the physical manifestation of outdated technology!

A loud knock on the door pulls me from this cascade of digital spam. Rocko is immediately growling, not at all pleased to have a visitor this early.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I assure my loyal pup as I climb out of bed.

I hurry into the living room and pull open the door to find the familiar grin of Gilburn hovering before me in all of his rectangular glory.

“Oh god,” I blurt. “What do you want?”

The spam email’s smile immediately falters, recognizing that I’m not exactly happy to see him.

“You weren’t responding to your emails,” he explains, a genuine concern in his voice. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

In this moment a heartbreaking wave of clarity washes over me.

Gilburn is a great guy in plenty of ways, and the amount of things we have in common is quite impressive. Unfortunately, it’s growing apparent that we vary greatly on the subject of how much space to give a potential new partner.

I straighten up a bit, finding confidence as I make my decision. “I don’t think this is gonna work,” I announce. “The emails are already starting to feel smothering, and we’ve only just met. There’s a lot of really positive things about you, but I told you I didn’t want any messages unless it was very important and you didn’t respect those boundaries.”

The physically manifested spam emails gazes back at me, dumbfounded.  “But we’re so compatible.”

“I mean, in some ways, but that’s the thing about boundaries,” I explain. “If you don’t respect them, then everything else goes out the window. You can be the nicest, coolest, kindest partner I could ever ask for, but not respecting my autonomy and my space and my limits is a deal breaker.”

The spam email just stares back at me, struggling to collect his thoughts. “But love is real, right?” he continues. “I thought we both liked Chuck Tingle.”

I can’t help but laugh at this. “That phrase doesn’t mean we need to tear down our personal boundaries and forgive every person who hurts us. There’s a difference between being positive and being toxically positive,” I counter. “Proving love to other people is important, obviously, but it’s also important to prove love to yourself. The easiest way to do that is to honor the boundaries that you set.”

Rocko has approached to my left, growling quietly. The canine’s demeanor towards Gilburn has completely shifted.

“Okay fine,” the spam email replies, “but before you call this whole thing off, you’ve gotta read these five wild reasons why we should stay together according to Cool Couples Magazine. You owe me that much-”

I cut him off immediately. “I don’t owe you anything.”

With that, I close and lock my front door.

It takes a moment, but Gilburn finally floats away.

I immediately head back into the bedroom, grabbing my laptop and opening my email. A few more messages have already started arriving, most of them hoping to sell me on some kind of relationship building self-help program.

I pull up my settings and highlight Gilburn’s email address.

“Let’s just filter these out,” I state confidently, Rocko happily wagging his tail once again.

I hit block, proving love is real to myself.