I have come to more thoroughly understand
being a man in the context of the great
regret machinations of our time
[a sensation not unlike finishing
the stinking shawarma you left out
that one time then decided to eat
because your fatigue caused a lack of interest
in unwritten expiration date consideration],
and have chosen to fish away my days
in lakes, rivers, ponds and streams, where
the skeletons all around you,
to the bluegills
while they inspect your lure
grinning at your little boat],
ears naturally aglow.
striders dot the scene,
checking for proper surface tension
(it’s like they don’t know about physics
and the evolution that specifically adapted them
to traveling in a manner that will never not be useful
in our particular iteration of the universe).
This particular set of tambourine excruciations lacks the comeuppance factor that my quarry companion would typically dish out. I’m so used to thinking of my submissive bud as “not without its sassy comebacks,” but this time it’s waxing heavily depressive, not even bothering to mount a modest reprisal.
I’ve made the executive decision to leave it to its own devices; I don’t need a triggered sidekick lollygagging around and confusing me more than normal. Such a distraction could undermine the very essence of my oh so lucrative pastime. I’ll just let it take a little time to itself (I’m generous that way) so it may sort out its existential concerns of its own accord–mainly because I just don’t want to be subjected to the ceaseless whining. And when I say whining, I mean good ol’ fashioned day-in day-out grumbling unlike any other you’ve ever seen, the very peak of which generally verging on psychosis.
Boy, I sure do know how to pick ’em. Of all the quarry companions made available to me, I just had to choose the one with the watery puppy dog eyes. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I have a flat out martyr on my hands who professes to be a beacon of emotions for its less-gifted brethren of the oft-neglected sedimentary sidekick school. All I want is a cheerful little buddy that I can count on to occasionally get me out of scrapes. Is that too much to ask?
I don’t have anything to say to the savage sauvignon or the temperamental tempranillo, they wouldn’t understand me anyway. I do have a bone to pick with these stubborn varietals, but I’d rather keep my emotions bottled up until near explosion. Something about keeping my feelings below the surface just seems right, until I blow my top at a valet guy who’s just trying to do his job. I can’t predict when my manic episode will happen, so I’ll just be leaving it up to chance, the decider of all fate.
Just a note for you, grand deciders of my fate: a wine tasting would be a really good way to boost morale around here. I don’t know if I’m your only subject or if you have an entire warehouse filled with these padded holding cells, but just keep that in mind if you’re looking to do something nice for me/us.
I really wish I could use my arms.