See, he was a self-described "grammar nazi." Seriously. I didn't know that people over the age of diapers actually described themselves in such a way, but upon meeting him—MySpace tough with a fuck me, no fuck you face, stupid hair and a collection of band T-shirts he'd purchased online rather than the shows of the bands he was representing—the increasingly humiliating fact that he, the boy of some unlucky girl's dreams, was a completely retarded (not the P.C. version, but, rather, the Eminem version. See also: gay) parody of every man I ever loved. I ever loved to sleep with, actually. No, definitely.

"So, you're from South Philly?" he asked, the same way someone might ask another person, "Soooo … how's them there cancer treatments going, Baldie Hawn?" I am. I told him I was. I completely am from South Philly. Like forever. I have been. Get off my back. I politely emoted though, curtly, because I am a pussy. I liked that he pitied me for living amongst filth and fliers for shows that even the band members' parents were too embarrassed to be seen at. I got a rise from it because I knew he had a shot glass' worth of a clue as to where I lived or what it was really like. Nothing special, but boys from western latitudes know no better.

"Oh, that's cool. So do you like, live near Geno's Steaks?"

But I did, I honestly did live near Geno's Steaks. I mean, I do. Shit, do I ever. The stink of onions has made my home real estate birth control and my clothes the Grand fucking Buffet. Typical, though, doesn't it figure. The only thing he knows about Philadelphia he read in some dipshit's audio blog the one day he linked a hot Peedi Crakk single. God, I wanted to work him like a rack of ribs and stab him through the neck with pamphlets from the visitor center at the Liberty Bell.

"Yeah, kind of," I answered, a full fifteen seconds later, which, in online time, is comparable to a human female's gestation period. Oh, did I mention that? Online, I mean? Gosh, how silly. Online. Typing that makes me feel so fat. With an F. Isn't that what the Internet was intended to do, and all? Make it easier for the rotund set to score some naked pictures of lithe young vinyl collecting faggots (Is there a P.C. version for that?) all the while mastering the art of angles and deception just to make their saddlebags look remotely like hipbones? Hipbones, I've heard, are the scenester equivalent to tits and ass. Oh, phooey. But anyway …

He was a Portland boy, see. I was a Philadelphia gal. A hot, young, charming, oh, and what the hell, amazing-in-sheet-messing-activities sort of gal. I blogged someone's boyfriend. I blogged someone's barely legal boyfriend. I blogged him in a hotel in Chicago, the back of his mom's van, and for thirteen seconds this one night, well, one very small, entirely unsatisfying fraction of this one night. And then he popped the question. Jesus Jesse Jackson Christ, no he didn't. No, he di'int, rather. Oh yes he did.

"Like, you think it'd be cool if I came to Philly for a weekend?"

I'm sorry, did someone just bash my skull with a sack of What The Ever Loving Fuck? No he cannot come to Philly. No, it's filthy. And that band stinks. And my house stinks. It's geographic cancer, pity me God, pity me, please. Or kill me. Do it quickly and painlessly. Send a beam of Serves You Right through this very machine that got me into this outstanding bit of trouble right now. Make it stop. Am I dead yet? No, he's still typing. He isn't stopping. Make him lame in both hand and mouth. No. He cannot, will not, come to Philly. I have a reputation to uphold. I am pretty and fabulous and totally unemployed and kind of desperate and Jesus, I have friends and people who know people and he corrects my grammar on the Internet and the shirts, he buys them with a credit card and a virtual shopping cart. And his girlfriend, all Sophomore Year of her, will hunt me down, and totally fucking harsh my mellow with those sorts of superpowers teenage girls have now that make them do things like impale the other woman who blogs their boyfriend in vans and hotels.

"I guess."

"That is SO fucking cool, baby! I'll buy my ticket online tonight."

It was only days later that I died. Suddenly. In my sleep. Peaceful and shit, you know. I had a friend let him know. In a MySpace bulletin. I died suddenly. Totally a shock to her friends and family, and like the entire online community, really. I am a pussy. I am a pussy and I liked him enough not to tell him that I could not confess that, no, he could not be a part of my city, or my real life, off the wires and in the flesh and the stink, the beautiful, wonderful fucking stench of dinner. He could not see my house keys because that would make me and it too real. Portland is a fairy tale town, a mythological holding cell for lithe vinyl collecting faggots with stupid hair and prom queen girlfriends and a complete and utter devotion for another girl with great shoes, complete disregard for they're, their, and there, and an ass to write City Hall about. But only slightly better than that ass and discontent for homophones, was that city, her city, where none of her dreams ever came true and nothing great ever happened. But it was the only thing that separated her from the fakes and the little deaths she suffered every day that a boy, and a western front, came and swept her away.