THE HOT YOUNG Thing is devastated.

After spending a romantic weekend with a potential Mr. Perfect in Las Vegas, this busty bombshell fell hard for the young real-estate mogul she described as being so "smooth he could sell a ketchup popsicle to a girl in white gloves."

"He's busy," she figured, when the phone didn't ring after their trip.

"He's inconsiderate," she decided, when a week passed.

"He's (unsuitable for a family newspaper)," she spat, when three weeks came and quickly went.

But then, she had a moment of inspiration. That's when she wrote The E-mail.