Dear Ms. XYZ,
I am Adam Dalgliesh, a friend of Veronica who you know quite well. She asked me to write to you hoping that we may form a suitable friendship. I hope that this missive finds you to be in reasonably robust health. You must be curious about me, and rightly so. Let me therefore describe something about myself. This is in the interest of honesty, clarity, and openness. Dating a man of my years, my hideous visage, and considerable girth, must fill you with trepidation. But I believe that baring my chest may put you at ease, although it is not an agreeable sight given the substantial and rugged male brassiere that I have to wear. It is a teutonic undergarment worn out of necessity. May I hasten to add that you should not be unnerved? I believe that it is quite the fashion.
I am a somewhat nice person. I say somewhat because some people think me nice whereas many think me not. I lean towards the opinion of the latter, believing that the opinion of the majority must carry some weight. If nothing else, I am democratic. But my personality is not of much import. More interesting are my psychosocial and pathophysiological dimensions. These are rich and varied indeed.
On the psychosocial side, I have some difficulties. These are not insurmountable but you may like to be prepared. Foremost is my tenuous grasp on reality. Let me quote my high-school counselor who wrote "It is easier for me to write about the things that Dalgliesh does not suffer from. To write about his psychological problems would take me several lifetimes." I think she was joking because I put a lab frog in her hand bag once. Just the common Rana pipiens, not the more interesting species of poison dart frogs (the family Dendrobatidae) which would have surely paralyzed her. But to be fair to her, she was not given to hyperbole. She probably spoke the truth.
Enough about my psychosocial dimensions. You must be eager to read more about my pathophysiology by now. Quivering perhaps? Quite.
My medical problems are extensive. Some have been documented in journals like Lancet and JAMA, but some are new to science and medicine. Take my Guinea worm problem for example. Every month on a Monday I have to show up at my podiatrist's where he seizes a large hemostat, and draws foot-long worms from open sores on my feet and legs. Although a foot specialist, he also has to draw worms from my buttocks. He is not quite certified to work in that region of my vast anatomy, but he does so without medical license because we have formed a pact of secrecy. He gets the fee from my insurance company so that I may rest my sore behind at night. He extracts these long worms and deposits them in large jars of formalin which he then sends to CDC for examination and histology. They occupy pride of place in his office. Please do not be horrified, for I look upon my Guinea worms with fatherly pride. I have seen beautifully stained sections of my worms. Even the micrographs of conventional Nissl stain with a eosin counterstain are works of art.
From my buttocks which is located in the posterior region, we now proceed to my other orifice at the anterior end. I refer to the oral cavity. Let me confess. I suffer from terminal halitosis. This is a mysterious and debilitating condition that guarantees early death. No cure is known to medicine. Yes, I am likely to to be the first man to die of bad breath. Suffocated by my own breath, so to speak. It was responsible for ruining three of my former marriages. My ex-wives complained that it was like sleeping next to a septic tank.
Proceeding in an antero-lateral direction on either sides let us now dive into my external ear canals. Residing within are thriving swarms of breeding mosquitoes. The fetid and moist environment of my external auditory meatus is most suitable for raising their larvae, for I rarely clean my ears. I believe the last time it was cleaned was more than two score years ago when my mother seized my head and poured peroxide into my ears. She has a video tape of this event which I will be glad to furnish. Most people complain of ringing in their ears. I am surely the first to complain of singing. Lest you think these minor pathologies are prosaic and passe, I hasten to mention that some aspects of my physiology and biology have made me famous. Among the vast and varied flora thriving on my body several new bacterial species have been discovered. Entirely and hitherto unknown to science, these bacteria have been named after me.
Be that as it may, let us proceed once more to my posterior orifice with some haste so as to elaborate, or we may delay further explanation and prolong this missive. We descend cautiously taking care to skirt my hunch back (a mere birth defect). My remaining three marriages were ruined by flatulence. Yes, I have been married six times. I hope that this does not cause you undue distress.
I will not go into many details on my fourth, fifth, and sixth marriages. Flatulence in matrimony is to be borne with grace, but if it exceeds 8 on the Richter scale there are grounds for serious concern. These later marriages were destroyed by regular nocturnal gaseous outbursts of extreme violence. Nay! They were gastronomical seismic events, uprooting tectonic plates. Entire continents have been shifted. They disrupted the sleep of #4, #5, #6, and led to night-time panic attacks. It must not have been fun sharing a bed with Mount Vesuvious, Etna, and Stromboli erupting at the same time, making the air unsuitable for the normal act of respiration. Their breathing became labored and throwing open the windows served no purpose. The gaseous plumes laced with mercaptans, monoxides, hydrocarbons, and other mysterious gases, felled those walking on the street below. They just dropped and asphyxiated. Connubial bliss it was not. My wives staggered with monotonous frequency into the ER and therapy, and were eventually diagnosed with PTSD. I signed the divorce papers with dignity and grace while they wore gas masks and biohazard suits.
We rush hither and thither, from posterior to anterior and back again. Do not be alarmed fair lady. Explanations about ourselves are rarely straightforward. The path is convoluted. Our physiology is mysterious as it is wondrous. I have alluded to the anterior and posterior ends of my anatomy, and the various maladies thereof. We now linger in the posterior regions, so as to elaborate further.
Thusly, let me now delve into my hemorrhoids. Not literally, for I fear your delicate sensibilities may be offended. But I will spare you the painful details. For they are indeed painful. I have to sit on pile rings. I usually walk around with one strapped to my buttocks. It causes people to stare. If you are not too embarrassed by it, I hope you will not mind me escorting you to dinner wearing this contraption. Once your initial discomfiture is past, you will not even notice.
There are a few other minor details. Relating to my peculiar eccentricities as noted by others. But these are piffling details that you will discover by and by. I have told you much believing that it is much the better to start out by being honest, and keep our expectations within reasonable limits.
I am excited about meeting you. I hope you do not mind the halitosis, nor will you mind the flatulence which often bursts out unprovoked in public. Please don't mind people staring at us, nor that they delicately raise their handkerchiefs to their noses whenever I pass by. It is better to be noticed than ignored.
I hope that the above introduction does not make me seem ineligible. I am indeed eligible. In fact, may I boldly hazard that I may be the last remaining eligible bachelor?
I look forward to hearing from you. Indeed, I feel a tremendous excitement when I think about it.
Your sincerely and etc.,
Adam Dalgliesh
