Eat my boots

At home. Turned TV off. Opened Yahoo mail and found 3 unread messages. Two were part of my autoresponder's daily digest, that sometimes surprises me pleasantly and the other was...
Figueira's.
How come he'd find my e-mail address?
Opened. Two links and two or three paragraphs cut and pasted by him:

10 top reasons why I wrestle:

#10 Absolutely love to administer pain and punishment. #9 Only sport to recognize the fine art of face-squashing. #8 Singlets highlight my positive features. #7 Only pre-requisite is guts. #6 Have to release that ol' butt-kicking feeling anyway. #5 Love to hear my opponent scream for their mommy. #4 Power and speed are just part of the job. #3 If necessary, can use a gut-wrench technique to win an argument. #2 Three words: "EAT MY BOOTS". #1 What else would I do? Play basketball?

He wrote: "I only couldn't understand the eighth. The rest my uncle translated for me."
I thought of explaining that the only positive feature to be highlighted was his penis, because the singlet could do hardly anything for his mentality. Well, I'm not explaining anything.

Another text. One of these two that are wrestling T-shirt prints at Summit Sports:

Wrestler:

noun. Any person who possesses the guts and power to force his or her opponent's body into the shape of a pretzel and then gently pin them into a soft mat where their mommy can tuck them ever-so-gently into bed.

He wrote: "I'm not alone in the long run. At least I'll try to change. At least I will."

I opened a new window and came to the weblog. Opened the hit counter and beside the IP a Google search URL with my full name in the text box. He found me. Search engines. Sooner or later.
I turned the computer off and went to Figueira's, since his telephone line was engaged. This nosy kid has been to my log.
I didn't enter his building, said I'd wait in front of it, I wouldn't take long there. He got down with a shadow on his face, what kind of shocked me. I had had a reading of sarcasm from his e-mail that crumbled to the ground as I saw his face coming out of the entrance hall. His look was the one of those who cry for help.
"I can tell you've already opened your e-mails today", he said, eyes between mine and the protective floor.
"I don't want you to enter my log. If you really want to read, ask your parents to do it first, if they judge you can read it, it's alright with me."

Hell or high water | To the end

Radio Universal: The Making Of A Thousand Gods.