The first answer to a question that was asked. [see the original question here]

Dear mr. inflatable dreams
I've taken the liberty of correcting your spelling. Nothing personal. I, myself, the correspondent herself (you don't dispute that too do you?) don't know how to spell correspondent. But I'm here on a very spiffy computer and I like to feel clean, I like to feel co-rrect. So I'm trying, as hard as I can to make red and green squiggles go a-way.

"May I ask, to an unnamed but obvious contributor, how any one correspondent could be more foreign than the others? For an internet magazine, where the single postal code is 'cyberspace' and the global village fits cleanly between the two sides of my monitor, the only way for a correspondent to be foreign is for them to be Amish. No?"

That was a question for the question box. Only mr. letter man suggested they be unanswered (in other words he wants his wonderings appearing on your monitor but does not have one wondering big enough for his own pictorial link). And I am answering your question. Taking it OUT of the question box and I am telling you that we can pretend were all anonymous like here on cyberspace, but I know you and you know me and you know I am currently situated more foreignly to the central hub of the touch me machine than you. So yes I'm foreigner than you. And I'm a girl, my species bewilders you, I am foreigner to you. And you made me an-gry with your question, my anger draws me away from anything sensible or reasoned, I am moving away, foreigner and foreigner to you by the letter. I am foreign to you when I wake in the morning in my room like an ice box, you don't know my cold. I am foreign to you when I do my ablutions, you don't know the colour of my piss. I am foreign to you when I leave, when I walk, when I bus, when I talk, when I write, you don't know the direction my actions will fly. I am foreign to you when I laugh and laugh, my laugh is foreign to you, you do not know what moves when my laugh shakes. And most of all I am foreign to you because I.
Because your monitor is street art, moving before your eyes. It’s the digital image of the words I write. It’s the digital image of me you see in my words. It’s the imprint of my brain on the keys. I am foreign. Don't question me again, not even in the unanswered question box (why, why is she so nasty, so unreasonably angry?). And if you do, I will seek you out and I will foreign you, like only a foreigner can do.