It was Creative Writing, in a real sense, that plea for money all my contacts received. You see, I was hacked. Humbled. Set spinning through the hairy realms of my internet accounts. I’m still working on the last arena of havoc. No idea how I’m getting all those Contacts back (about half, apparently my most-used).
Or rather, it was a creative endeavor. How did they do it? How did they sneak in and attach a similar-sounding Hotmail address to my at&t email, and make it so the Reply mail got sent to that one? First, a short and mysterious request for help from me, to which a few replied. Then, from the Hotmail account, a sad vignette wherein I am with my dying cousin in the Ukraine.
But no one fell for it. “It didn’t sound like you,” each person told me, each kind and concerned person, not one of whom had ever seen my writing. Even my Berkeley massage clients who are in their 80’s, the demographic you might worry about with this sort of thing, weren’t worried in the least.
“I could tell it wasn’t you.”
It got me thinking about the slice of yourself that you put into your keyboard, via your fingertips, and send out into the world. It’s a hefty enough slice that your people know you from Joe Hacker, out there in a fancy apartment somewhere, trying to sink his digital fingers into the pockets of all your friends.
All my friends.
It also got me wondering. Why would they go so far, and take such a risk, and then not spend the time to write it a little better? The language was off, only faintly in an English as a Second Language way, more just flat, formal, and vague.
Joe needs to marry hisself an English major.