Remember That Time You Bought Me Coffee?: A Totally Platonic Love Letter to Foster Kamer
It is Foster's last day today. We feel things. We wrote this.
Oh, Foster. It seems we only just met, and at the same time, that we've known you all of our lives. You've been there working side by side with us, sweating through our respectable button-downs that summer when you had the only office fan, crossing the dusty, dangerous moat to our formidable HQ as the seasons changed but the coffee runs and "late-night jam sessions" and scaffolding stayed the same, or huddling over the communal fire-pit to warm our frigid fingers on the cold, dark nights when the Internet's thirst seemed positively vampiric, and not in a "sexy Edward Cullen" sort of way.
It's been nearly 9 months, the gestation period of a human female! Sometimes we would creep up behind you as you typed and stare at you for a while, just to watch the magic happen. You never knew this, of course, because that would have made it -- and us -- creepy. But after you got us put on the FBI Watch List, we were hooked. And fortunately that water cooler is right behind your desk.
You are the yin to our yang (the yang to our yin?), the "Metallica" to our "Boy Least Likely" (as you yourself once said), the Jew to our Not-Really-Sure-But-Maybe-Presba-Lutheran?, the Fearless Shots-Firing Wunderkind to our Adorable Animals in Trouble Video Collection and Distribution Agency That Moonlights in the Plight of Single Ladies. We will never forget our first week, or was it month? -- time so flies when we're having fun together! -- when you showed the world Ashley Alexandra Dupré's famous breasts. We thought: HOW CAN WE COMPETE WITH THIS MAN?
Fortunately, it was never a competition, or if it was, it was secret and only on our side. (Don't open that bottom desk drawer you never use, okay? Just...don't.) We knew it would always be good between us that night we called you drunk from that bar, and you actually answered. Or maybe texted. We can't recall. Did we call you, or was that someone else entirely?
At any rate, we're pretty sure you soothed us in our time of need, helped us understand that we might have an eensy bit of a drinking problem (but that that was okay, it happens to a lot of people!), introduced us to the myriad secrets that the blogging world held, always told us we looked at least 5 years younger than our actual age, and let us grow and prosper and order Grand Szechuan alongside you.
We knew that our time together would be short. We didn't know how or why or when it would end; we only knew that something so beautiful was destined to die early. That made it all the more precious, much like Teh Itteh Bitteh Book of Kittehs you gave us that we have
slept with under our pillow cherished ever since. Or James Dean.
But we won't say die, no, for death means that something has ended. And something has only just begun, so...to LIVE! A beautiful beast must not be caged; it must roam free and swing through trees and jump and sing and dance in front of a computer as nature intended. And then, it must decamp for Esquire. Who are we to begrudge a man's natural instinct toward stimulating discourses regarding manpris and egg-white omlets at the Hearst Cafeteria?
As we sit here on your very last day, savoring the remaining sips of what may be the final coffee you will buy for us (but probably not, because we never have cash and if you think you're getting off that easy, you are sorely mistaken, buddy), we can only think to ourselves, IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING? and HOLY SHIT, THAT WAS FUN.
Gonna miss you, FEK.
PS: You can just leave that Obama vibrator at your desk, if you don't want it. We'll take good care of it.
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