Loneliness and the Cunning Fennec Fox

20 May 2014; Addendum

0927 hrs

Oh my jebus.  I had no idea I would be ready to rant again so quickly.  I have always had a quick recovery time, Patient Reader. 

            More idiots.  I have an acquaintance/almost friend who has asked me repeatedly for my phone number.  I have been obliging each time, even though I am reticent to give it out.  Sometimes, you see, when I give out my number, people who have it tend to call me.  Like I really want to talk to (some . . .  ok, most) people in the first fucking place.  Why can’t people be more like the animals that we are?

            OK, digressing, here!  So I give . . .  I’ll call him Shmay, my telephone number.  Twice after losing it . . . and I am sitting in the cafeteria when I see him walk by outside.  We make eye contact and I wave to him, thinking he is coming in to have me install the software he needed on his computer.  So he disappears for however long, an hour or so, and I decide I’d better text him . . .  right?  With me so far?

Picking up what I am putting down?  

Sniffing what I am squeezing out?

            He texts me back half an hour later.  “Whose (sic) this?”

            Oh for fuck’s sake.  So I text back: “Holy Jebus, really?  How many times have I given you my number?  It’s the Cunning Fennec Fox.”

 

            “Kinda testy this morning, huh LOL?” he responds, never mind not answering the initial question of where the fuck are you?

 So I am done.  I really don’t give a shit anymore.  I stopped caring where the fuck he was.  So I text back: “HaHA.  Never mind . . .” Because, well, I stopped giving a shit, right?

            Then I get a text back saying he’ll be her in ten.  “You have no idea how happy that makes me,” I text back.

            So, Patient Reader, here’s my frustrated admonition to those kinds o’folks:  Get your fucking shit together.  By the third time I give you my number, put the fucking thing in your phone right away.  Oh, and remember your computer if I set aside time to install software on it.  My time is valuable, as it is limited in all possible meaning.  Yeah, he forgot that, too.

            Now, I know that this seems like a what-the-fuck-are-you-complaining-about-Fox? sort of scenario.  I mean really . . . if this is the only thing I have to worry about today, then I got off pretty good, right?

            Problem is, this is just one more Idiot Straw with which I am presented on a daily basis.  Every A.M., I am surrounded by my Followers, the Cunning Fennec Foxites.  They sit at my feet as I dispense my invaluable wisdom free of charge; they climb the rugged mountain to consult the hermit at its peak.

            This “quiet time” is rife with interruption and distraction, but if you make it worth my time by making things intriguing or entertaining, then I really don’t abhor the company.  But if you’re going to take valuable time out of (anyone’s) my life, time I will never ever get back, and suck the life out my will to live like the parasite you are, then maybe you should seek the visions of another oracle.  Except for you, Patient Reader.  Y’all know that I know that y’all are not like that.

22 May 2014

0738 hrs

            Good morning, Patient Reader.

            Here we are again, college cafeteria, where I am trying to get a few thoughts posted before I impart wisdom upon my disciples.  They should be gathering soon.

(c)  Properfessor

            I did just dismiss, I’ll call him Shmalex, that he might go forth and spread my gospel.  He is required to raise from the dead one adult or two smallish adults or two children before he can reach the next step toward enlightenment.  Keep your fingers crossed for him, Patient Reader.

            He told me today that his CT scans revealed two abdominal masses that measure around 41 mm in diameter, each.  Hmm.  This could be bad.  Sure, it could be that they are only fluid filled sealed cysts, but you know me, Patient Reader.  As the eternal jaded cynical pessimist, I know it’s cancer.  Malignant; angiogenetic; terminal.  But he’s going to a better place, right all you jesus freaks?  So we shall not mourn him-we shall praise his short but gay life.

            Yes, he’s gay.  Yes, he loves to compete in the drag shows and Divine is his heroine, as is RuPaul and the like.

            So what?  He’s a sweet kid and he treats others with respect and he loves his mama . . .  I suppose if y’all have a problem with who he is, or really feel like you have the authority to tell him who he can and cannot love, well, then you can forcefully go fuck yourselves.

            Then there’s my other friend.  Someone very dear to me who is in one of those relationships.  You Patient Readers of the female persuasion may be better able to relate to this than the dudes, but I think we can all empathize if not sympathize.

 

            She is stuck in the loveless relationship where the ex keeps sniffing around, saying he’s changed, saying he’s ready to be a pop to her kids.  They donated the chromosomes of one of those kids so they have to be civil toward one another anyway, but he always fucks up her head after he wins her back.  And she keeps going back.  And he keeps thinking he is in control, because he is.  At least every time she goes back.

            I used to be this dude, you see.  If I won the girl back, it meant I won . . . right?  Jesus . . .  I look at that sonofabitch, the Old Me, and I see how terrible and awful people like us are.  I really did my best to leave that guy behind, and for the past decade and a half I have yet to see again that ugly head.

 

            But for her I see another couple of years of heartache, and I told her so, of this pain she has in store.  She will wise up eventually, but at what cost?  Had I a heart, it would hurt for her.

            Then there’s my other bud.  Her son is awaiting trial, in jail, and counter-intuitively we hope they find his mental problems are behind his alleged crime and that he goes to the state hospital so he doesn’t have to go to prison.

            I have a semi-crush on a woman in my class, but she’s married so, off-limits.  Learned my lesson.

            It’s difficult, Patient Reader, to be and feel as young as I am and still end up lonely.  It’s rough coming home at the end of the day, full of news good or bad, and have no one to tell it to. 

            It’s funny, but sometimes I’ll go all weekend without saying a word, simply because I have no one to speak to.  The first words I say on Monday morning sort of croak out of my face like an Egyptian plague, and it’s usually a “Good Morning,” to the bus driver.

(c)  courtesy Popscreen

            But that’s OK, right?  I mean, I got myself here.  The making of my own bed requires me to lie in it.  I suppose that I really am the only person on the planet who feels the way that I feel about love and the like.  About the fact that I should stay fast to the way I truly feel and believe, instead of saying I Love You to someone whom I do not.  Maybe if I get lonely enough, it will justify the lies?  This can’t be the case.  None of you women like being lied to, that much I do know about y’all. 

            Ack . . .  this was not supposed to turn into a Pity Party for yours truly, yet here we are.  Things have just been going so poorly for me, lately.  It’s hard sometimes to just crawl out of my bed knowing my ass is going to be handed to me sometime during the day. 

           

Sometimes more than once, even.

            So the pain I feel is not unique in any other way than that it is mine.  It is a burden that I alone must carry, and I accept its burden.  I only wish that I could set it down, even for a moment, and rest these weary bones.