2. You should know better than to email random, faceless bloggers. I could be a 67-year-old shut-in, male, ex-postal worker in the Bronx with a penchant for ginger cats. I could be a vindictive nut. What if I'd taken your email and posted it online? That would have made you look completely crazy and added to your woes.

3. I'm not going to post your email online because I’m not a nut, and you seem like (despite your short temper) a nice person, if perhaps a little too honest and earnest about your feelings. Sometimes it's best to keep your feelings to yourself. You don't need to share what you're feeling every time you're feeling it. Keeping your emotions circumspect will keep you from getting hurt by the cruelty that is most people.

4. You need to relax about all this media bullshit. Do as the song says and Let. It. Go. Just, let it go. Focus on the positive, and IGNORE THE NEGATIVE. Sorry for shouting at you, but—like I said—from the research I've done about you, you seem like a nice person.

In summary, let me know if you want me to highlight any charity in particular, never send emails to people you don't know personally, share your thoughts and feelings only with those you trust, and let go of the negative, focus on the positive.

I sincerely hope you take my advice.

All the best, The Socialmedialite

The first time I read it, I was angry. The second time, my anger slowly began to deflate because, although she was coming across a little bit high and mighty, I could also see that she was trying to be kind, and I didn’t know how to handle that. She had given me advice. Good advice. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve left our correspondence where it stood. But it was late, and I was lonely for company.

I was homesick, but at the same time, I couldn’t go back yet. There were too many bad memories there, too many painful feelings. And Brona was there. I didn’t want to be in the same country as her, not yet anyway. It was sad, but I think I would have replied to the Devil himself right then, I was so desperate for someone to talk to. I wanted it to be Annie, but I’d settle for this online blogger.

March 13

Dear Socialmedialite,

Thank you for your advice. You didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my anger. It was simply a case of bad timing. When I saw your article, I had been holding my tongue for weeks, allowing people to write lies about me and never once fighting back.

I guess you’re not as bad as I made out, are you?

Believe it or not, I am trying to let it go. In fact, I’m in what you would call media training at the moment. So this is progress, yes? It’s boring as fuck, but at least I’m trying.

Regards,

Ronan Fitzpatrick

P.S. Are you really a 67-year-old ex-postal worker shut-in from the Bronx? Because that visual is totally killing my buzz. I’m imagining you as a sexy librarian dominatrix type. I don’t care if you’re not. Picturing you that way is what makes me happy, so you’ll just have to live with it.

P.P.S. Any charity for disadvantaged children works for me.

I knew my response was overly friendly and personal, flirtatious even. What was I on? I was feeling reckless and hit “send” before thinking it through; then I regretted it. I went back and forth on this until I saw a new message come up in my inbox.

Ronan,

Feel free to visualize whatever you like. It doesn’t change the fact that I have a scruffy beard, beer belly, and a gigantic tattoo of a topless mermaid on my arm.

SML

I laughed and immediately hit reply.

SML,

Just out of curiosity, what cup size is the mermaid?

Ronan

I went and made my night time protein shake. When I returned to my laptop twenty minutes later, I saw her reply.

Go to bed, Ronan.

And so I did.

Chapter Seven

The Fake-out: When the photographer pretends to be taking a picture of one thing (perhaps a group of people or a tourist attraction) but is instead taking a picture of something or someone else.

Best for: National monuments, locations of interest/note.

Do not use: If there is nothing interesting nearby.

*Annie*

The first gift arrived in the afternoon on March 14th.

When the building concierge called¸ I was still in my pajamas.

“Ms. Catrel, it’s Tony from downstairs. Sorry to call but you got a special delivery, and the guy here won’t let me sign for it.”

“Oh.... Are you sure it’s for me?”

“Yep. It says ‘Annie Catrel’ on the front.”

“Um…hmm.” I frowned, not sure what to do. I didn’t know anyone, not really. I had no friends in real life. Though I had some online friends and colleagues with whom I was friendly as The Socialmedialite, none of them knew who I really was or how to contact me, let alone where I lived.

“Do you want me to escort him to your apartment? Or do you want to come down here?”

“I guess I’ll come down.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, Tony. ’Bye.”

I stared at the phone for a few seconds after clicking off and then rushed to dress in jeans, flip-flops, and a T-shirt, pulling my hair into a ponytail.

Downstairs I found Tony glaring unhappily at a courier who was holding a medium-sized box. I noted the man—really, a teenager by the looks of him—was wearing a T-shirt with a logo that read Tea and Sympathy over the left breast.

“Annie Catrel?” he asked.

“Yes.” I glanced at young man then at Tony.

“Here, this is for you.” The courier held out the box and placed it in my reluctant grip.