Sierra, I’m sorry.

Call me several times burned and now shy, but I must reject your offer of friendship.

Unfortunately, the same goes for you, Pat and Carole, and you, Ashlee, and, sadly, Stephanie and Katrina as well.

And Gaston, don’t even go there.

Now, I understand, you’ve tried contacting me via facebook friend requests, message requests and e-mail a number of times. I see your messages, with their pert subject lines — “hello!” “Someone wants to meet you” and who can forget “Want to come play tonight?”

I admit, you are nothing if not ardent in your proposed ardor. However, too often in the past, I’ve figuratively ripped open these entreaties with bated breath, filled with anticipation of a burgeoning
relationship, and been soured with the over-ripe fruit of disappointment.

Instead of companionship, you offer me Rolexes. Cheap Rolexes, yes, but I already have several watches. Other times, your message is nothing but stock tips. I can tell they must be good by your overuse of exclamation marks, but they hold little interest for me.

Sometimes, in very dark times, you’ve even given me viruses.

Oh, how I fondly recall the good old days, when you sent me offers of READY and WILLING women in my area who WANTED TO MEET me. I cherish those fading remainders of the days when my mailbox teemed with the promise of millions of dollars from Mobutus, sure-fire Male Enhancement and bootleg copies of Photoshop. But as Eric Cartman sang, before his “South Park” days, in the hit song “All By Myself,” “…those days are gone.”

Now, I think we have a communication problem. You send me mixed messages. Strange, coded mixed messages. They begin with the aforementioned offers of cheap watches, or stock tips, but then degenerate into a scramble of seemingly random words. “Banana Monsieur Topper Albino Mosquito
Burrito Tickler Tang Camaro Windex Cooler Delicious Filipe Blonde Asparagus Anvil Yum Yum…” Have you been drinking and e-mailing again?

I told you I was sorry. I thought I made it clear it was best we both moved on. Especially when everything you say to me is in jibberish. However, judging by today’s e-mail box, you seem to have ignored my desires — once again.

Therefore, I can no longer open your messages. I just can’t take the chance of my heart, and my hard drive, becoming infected with your zika virus of betrayal. I must delete you, from my mailbox…and my very soul.

And you must move on, the same way I did.

Through the magic of chain letters. That’s right! Just make a wish and send out copies of this column to 10 of your friends within the next 15 minutes!!! If you do, then your fondest wish will come true!!!! But don’t delay…

Sean Leary

Sean Leary is an author, director, artist, musician, producer and entrepreneur who has been writing professionally since debuting at age 11 in the pages of the Comics Buyers Guide. An honors graduate of the University of Southern California masters program, he has written over 50 books including the best-sellers The Arimathean, Every Number is Lucky to Someone and We Are All Characters.