Omar I love you and I miss you:

Troll Trolley! Troll Trolley! Troll Trolley!

As I am sure you have seen from the recent pictures I sent via this new email, I have grown my beard out to mimic yours. Please forgive me. I know that a white boy like myself can not encapsulate the power of a culture in facial hair like a man such as yourself can. I trim mine. What can I say to you—I must. My French lineage makes me so very hairy and these snow white witch twigs on my face disturb my concentration. Your fine hairs are the result of an almost Andean lack and subsequently, Herculean act of hair production. I realize you have never felt the sweet burn of the razor on your skin, but believe me: grooming for the French is a necessity.

My salutation no doubt confirms my presence in the great lusty capitol of gay life: San Francisco. Pleasure is abundant here, but I have saved my loin children for you and only you. I realize that your interview was not a success, but I have spoken to a great and expensive lawyer here in California—do not think bad of me when I say they are the best here because they know that everyone is out to get them—and she has informed me that with much dollars American and time, we shall accomplish our task of VISA for you. As I have explained before this is not something you pay for monthly, this is our ticket to love and freedom. This is our FAG DOCUMENT.

What to say of this city? Let it speak for itself:

What? You're leaving so soon?

Yes, I am quite burdened by tremors resulting from this strange smell of “stink bugs.”
(an insect unable to live in your homeland, my Omar)

You mean these Poppers?

I eat nothing named as "Popper". I only eat freshly killed animals or freshly sliced vegetables.

So you really are leaving?

Yes.

I CAN STICK MY TONGUE ALL THE WAY UP YOUR ASS!

I miss your smell, baby doll,
Marco