From the Desk of Nona Lippi:

I’ve been independent as long as I’ve been alive. My mom died during childbirth as a result of auto-erotic asphyxiation. My foster families hated me, my teachers hated me, even my reflection hated me. I’ve never been loved, and as a result, I’m lonely. My table only has a chair for me, an upright broom, and a complicated series of mirrors to make it feel like I have company. And no matter how much I talk to Orlando Broom and his friends, I still need a human touch. Maybe not even a touch. Just acknowledgement. If you’re alive but no one knows it, are you truly alive?

One evening, after a dinner of Kraft Mac and Cheese and Fruit Roll-Ups, Orlando Broom and I were aimlessly flipping through Hulu, our nightly ritual that is almost as fun as actually finding a show to watch. Glass of Franzia after glass of Franzia, skipped reality show after skipped reality show, my bubbling loneliness finally spilled out to Orlando.

“Why am I here, Orlando? Is living this removed from society with all of this wealth really worth it? When I die, what will be left? Will anyone remember me? Who would I haunt”?

Orlando looked at me with those eyes, those silent, bristle shaped eyes, those dust covered eyes that judged and comforted me, hated and loved me. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t have to, also because he’s a broom. I knew what I had to do. I had to download “Yo.”

Yo is a messaging app where the only message that can be sent is a simple “yo.” Communication has come full circle, and yo is both the beginning and end of the way we as a species talk. And this is how I’ll find my soulmate. I sign up for the app, and wait. I have no friends to add to my account, I can’t add any Loser City writers ever since the lawsuit. So I’ll wait. Someone has to find me.

Hours pass, days pass, a week gone. And not a single “yo.” No “yo.” It’s as if no one is trying. I’m doing my best. Yes, I could get an OK Cupid account or go to a bar but this is what Orlando Broom told me I have to do. There is no other way. Then, like Timothy Olyphant’s penis– which I always imagine while in the shower– it came. “Yo,” my phone shouted at me. The yo came from whispering_eye37. So I yo’d back a few minutes later; I didn’t want to come off desperate. With that yo, another returned. We yo’d back and for about two hours, then I yo’d him that I was going to bed. He yo’d back as my eyes closed and I fell to sleep with a smile for the first time.

I’m awoken by a yo. “Good morning,” is what I imagine he meant to say despite the limited means of communication.

“Yo (You too, how did you sleep?)”

“Yo (Great, I got a new mattress that helps with my sleep apnea.)”

“Yo (That’s good that you’re taking a proactive step in you sleep health. We spend a third of our lives in bed after all.)”

“Yo (Which is exactly why I purchased the mattress. A good night sleep is a great way to start the day. What do you have going on today?)”

“Yo (Nothing really, I think I might start watching Hannibal. I’m kind of over gritty shows at the moment ever since Breaking Bad ended, but I keep hearing this is a must watch.”)

“Yo (Oh, it’s great! I’m still on season one, but I’m addicted!)”

“Yo (That’s great to hear! I’ll start now!)”

“Yo (Sounds good, I’ll let you watch, talk to you later!)”

“Yo (Bye!)”

That has to be what he’s meaning to say when he sends me the yo’s. I know it. You can say a lot with two letters. I like him already, whispering_eye37. I bet behind the yo’s he a nice fellow. He probably lives in a one-bedroom apartment with a flat screen TV and a couch from Ikea. His bedroom probably has a floor lamp with three bulbs, his diploma in computer science hangs in a heavy frame, underneath it a medium sized dog bed for his labrador named Chester or Banjo. Grey curtains that mostly block out the sun, but let in just enough to make his morning wake feel naturally comfortable. He makes his queen sized bed every morning, a habit he maintained from his over-bearing mom whom he’s learned to love as he got older. A few condoms in the bedside table next to his grandmother’s Bible and his grandfather’s watch. He’s perfect.

I can’t even watch Hannibal. I keep thinking about him. Orlando Broom says I should wait a while to yo back, but I tell him to shut up and grab my phone. I can’t wait. He’s the perfect man. He’s everything I want. I know we’ve only been yoing for a few hours but damn it I want to marry this man!

“Yo (Hey.)”

“Yo (Hi! How was Hannibal?)”

“Yo (I couldn’t finish it, I had to tell you something.)”

“Yo (What’s the matter? Was I coming on too strong?)”

“Yo (No, not at all! This might sound crazy, but I think I love you.)”

“Yo (…I don’t know what to say. It seems so soon.)”

“Yo (I know, I feel like an idiot, I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk anymore, I understand.)”

“Yo (No, it’s not that. Not at all. You’re a great person. I wanted to tell you that I loved you too. From that first yo, I knew it was meant to be)”

“Yo (You’re just saying that to make me feel better.)”

“Yo (I mean it! If I were there, I’d probably kiss you.)”

“Yo (I wouldn’t mind that at all.)”

At that point, I put my phone down, laid down on my bed, and began to imagine his hands running through my hair. They were probably soft, his fingers. He would kiss my lips, then my cheeks, then my neck, all with the same softness of his fingers through my hair.  He’d take off my blouse and his shirt, unhook my bra, and we’d be naked together. Our bodies would be intertwined. He would treat me like a woman, and he’d be my man. Everything for me, that’s all he needs. He’d slide my skirt off and his pants off and begin. And nothing would hurt. Everything would be perfect and balanced and in rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow. Perfect just like him. My back would arch and my toes curl until finally, after sharing the most intimate of moments with my man, we’d be finished. And he’d kiss my forehead and smile.

That’s if he were here.

I picked my phone up after my “break” and there were no yo’s.

So I yo’d.

And yo’d.

And yo’d.

And nothing.

He stopped. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe if I sleep, there will be a yo when I wake up.

Nothing.

Yo, I send

Yo, I send

YO

YO

YO

YO

Why?

Where are you?

I loved you, I love you.

Come back

He never did. I deleted Yo from my phone after a week of no yo’s. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.

And that’s why I haven’t finished Hannibal yet.

Nona Lippi, CCO, DDS, DTF
Loser City Headquarters
The Pacific Ocean