Roughly 66% of this site’s readers contacted me in regards to what they had dubbed the “Sheila Paquette Arc“, wondering what had ever come from the mystery caller. The remaining 33% of this site’s readers – me – decided to write Ms. Paquette and figure out what was going on. Slipping off my silken gaming gloves, I deftly replaced them with my 400 threadcount cotton typing gloves, and verily transcribed this letter.
For weeks I had anticipated a reply. So at the precise moment that the reply didn't come, I exclaimed "I can wait not a moment more!", flung my body back in my hardened leather chair, and moved my muddied riding boots from the bearskin rug, up onto the Turkish boy that I pay to by my ottoman. He grunted under the weight, and so I dug my heels into his ribs. Ottomans shouldn't make noise.
Languishing not knowing what business could have come from the initial message, and why no reply had followed, I began to pace the room. “What business could Ms. Paquette have had, and why no further correspondence?” I wondered aloud. The ottoman didn’t reply. Seeing as how I would have to solve this mystery on my own, I deftly made my way to the other side of the room to retrieve a magnifying glass from an antique mahogany dresser. With the magnifying glass in hand, I was ready to glean information from a calendar, and I attempted to discern how many fortnights had passed since our last correspondence. I realized two things at that moment; one, all correspondence has been rather one-sided, and two, I haven’t purchased a new calendar in over a fortyear.
I needed to draft a follow-up letter, but first I took a second to finish my morning brandy for the third time and sprung forth for the fifth that rested on the counter. This caused me to become overcome with a case of the vapors, and I dropped the magnifying glass, thus I was forced to call upon my servant to fetch the brandy for me. I cast the previous bottle into the fireplace in anticipation of the fresh one. I looked about my estate, above the fireplace hung a cluster of pheasant heads that I had had mounted together to appear more menacing. My head rolled towards the sprawling picture window, from which I observed the sunrise, and admired its wide array of colors that it had managed to paint onto the sky. I, myself had tried to paint the sky once, but must admit that the level of success did not meet my expectations. At the behest of a servant, who claimed that painting the sky an impossibility, I shifted my attention towards painting my house. The results were so disappointing that I had no choice but to have it burned down and purchase a new one.
Unless I receive a response, I fear that I shall not write you again until my next letter.