Dear Mun . . .

So, uh. This is happening, is it? You're actually doing this? You realise that you're about ten years too late to the party, and that's only the tip of the ice berg that the Titanic capsized against, yeah? You've barely even watched the documentary for the first time, and you're already running before you can walk.

And anyway, this is a bit fucking weird. I mean, you've gone and made an account for me, which - well, first of all, thanks - and now you're scouting around, looking for people I already know for me to talk to. Which actually, you don't need to do. The last thing I need is Gareth popping his weird, little knobbly face into my business. I get enough of that at work. It'd be nice to see Dawn, yeah, of course it would be, but it's like I said: the only thing that most of us have in common is the fact that we're sharing the same space for eight hours a day.

If anything, I'd be more than happy to, uh, stretch my... figurative wings for a bit. Meet new people, make some actual friends outside of the oh so wonderful paper business. It'd be... well, it'd be new and interesting, which is something that my life sorely lacks.