Molly gets a mash note

Molly got a mash note in the mail today. She was sitting in the girl teachers' lounge and drinking a bottle of bubbly water and opened an envelope with a handsome handwriting and there was a poem written to Molly praising her mind her tits her ass her mind her soul her mound her mind her taste in men her sarcasm her jeans. It was OK poem that got better as it went along and it was in rhyme and she blushed. Was it written by Max? if so he had someone else write it out because Max's handwriting doesn't look like that. But Max unmasked is Max unasked, and in the dark she may think of him tonight. She likes Max because she expects Max to be Max and not change and she doesn't tell him when to sit down and when to stand up and when to hang up his coat and when to get the ice bucket for the party because a crowd of creeps are coming over to raid the refeigerator where she keeps the pills and religion. Molly is amazed at how many there are, people, ciphers, fakers, the occasional real person who is willing to sign her name or his name or your name or their name and how many there are, and a lot of them are vain and if not vain they are resentful and if not resentful they are bitter and arid and ugh, and some of them are not even forty years old and writing their memoirs. Don't be like one of them!