This is Going Way Too Fast, and... Well, Okay.

Dear Mrs. Driver,

I like you. You're cute, funny and smart. Even when I read your first e-mail, I knew you were special. I knew that you'd "get" me.

So, we've been hanging out for a while now, and it's been really great. At the same time, it all seems to be moving so fast.

I can't tell you the last time I had so much as a second date. No, seriously. I can't tell you. Partly because I honestly can't remember. Really. I'm pretty sure the current president was not in office.

Anyway, all of that time... to... um... "work on me" has made me... well... let's call it... "independent." There are some people out there who might say it's more like "selfish" or "set in his ways" or even "a mild sociopath." Those people just envy my lifestyle.

And you can bet your booty that I'm not about to give that up. After all, I just bought this sweet Condo. I'm going to watch all the DVDs I want. I might even throw in "Glengarry Glen Ross" for the thirty-seventh time and just let it run while I straighten up the office. And yes, I will channel surf at my leisure, thank you very much. I will also hang heavy metal album covers on the walls. And when I eat a can of tuna for dinner, I will not even use a plate.

Other dudes would kill for less. Many have.

The point is, I've got things set up pretty much how I like them. I do a modest amount of what passes for "work" -- just enough to cover the mortgage and keep me in cheeseburgers and Dr Pepper. Sometimes I go to the nearby ubiquitous coffee house with my portable laptop computer. There are a lot of other people there just like me -- pretending to work in the hopes that someone will walk by and actually offer them a paying gig.

I also spend a lot of time at the local pub. Not that you could tell by my svelte physique -- the product of a strict cheeseburger diet combined with a moderate-to-extreme sedentary activity. Sure, the gun show might look more like a couple of party poppers -- and the six pack is more like a case. But my motto has always been, "No pain."

That's pretty much it. Just "No pain." 

So please forgive me for wanting to take things slowly. While I might want to spend every waking minute with you, it seems logical and prudent to take our time.

Plus, I've gotta bail for now. There's a re-run of that episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer gains weight to go on disability. Greatness!

I guess what I'm trying to say, Mrs. Driver, is this:

"Will you be my girlfriend?"

What?

Oh.

No, of course. I remember.

Seven years? Really?

Man. Time flies.