Sunday, 29 January 2017
Apologies For Being... Er... Late
Dear Ms. Jones
I hope this letter finds you well and rested for the coming year.
It has come to my recent attention that my reference to an underlying theme and indeed a punchline from your story, as the premise for this blog, had indeed caused some confusion.
It appears that the majority of people, while able to assimilate word based double entendre of base sexual content, are not certain when it comes to entendre that is triple or multiple; especially when abstract.
It appears that the mental whiplash caused by the several drastic and not always diametrically opposed juxtapositions this brings, breeds a cautious worry and uncertainty in hairless monkeys, rather than humour; even I have to admit to not always being completely certain of the destination these paths have lead to - nor indeed caring.
It would seem that any indication of vulnerability from the male of our species makes most pointedly uncomfortable and leads to social awkwardness. Unsurprisingly it seems that the countries which we inhabit would sooner their male hairless monkeys express themselves violently, with leather clad pig's bladders than honesty and candor; such is the sorry state of evolution.
However, I would like to assure you that my commitment to this particular dead horse is as inane as ever and its practice is intended to continue - mostly because the discomfort factor is too good an opportunity to miss.
Forsooth even, only in these last past weeks was I 'pimped out' by a well meaning friend to a lovely young girl, who by the looks of things was looking forward to heading back to school. The offer of which of course, I graciously declined, despite assurances that she was 'used to old guys'; such is the full ignorance of youth, that the point of my decline was indeed missed.
This has however, following on as it does from a prolonged period of singleness and as you may be familiar, triggered a rather drastic retake of my situation.
Spending one new years eve alone was a bucket list item and resoundingly achieved.
Spending two new years eves in a row alone was a stoic and Gothic undertaking with not a great deal of personal cost - mainly because I didn't finish with the horses until 8:30 that particular eve.
Spending three new years eves in a row alone, bereft of invitations when in one's home town, causes one to pause and wipe the sentiment from their eyes - the adage that one does not choose their family is no soothing ointment alone on NYE midnight I can tell you, and indeed wonder if one spent enough effort nurturing support structures in the previous months - or indeed if one is actually a C-bombCensored.
Erring on the side of caution, assuming the last statement is indeed correct, this brave new year of 2017 Ms. Jones, sees me in no real position to satisfy any justification of joy, as the realisation that the profession I have chosen may just not exist in my home town, comes crashing down around my empty coffers.
With only the merest blip of a shadow on the horizon in terms of date prospects and given the above, I have resolved to throw an enormous sulk for the rest of the year, further isolating myself from the machinations of mediocre.
'Hell in a hand-basket' is the motto for 2017, as people hope that it'll be better than 2016: about that, it's filled with the same people that made 2016 such a joy, so yea, about that.
And I remind you that this potentially all-time blistering hyper-sulk follows on from the all-encompassing post-quake mega-sulk of 2011-2014, triggered by people so passive-aggressive, you hardly noticed they’d spoken until the blood began to drip and you wondered why you’d done it yourself.
Which itself lead into the wide-reaching post-dumped meta-sulk of 2014-2016: death comes quickly to all on this plane of opposites, and everything, everything turns to dust.
Acknowledging having once more regressed into a level of adolecent angst and hostility that even teenagers would be hard pressed to match, I can only feel sorry for any date prospects for the coming year...
...That's right... Fish and Chips, no expense spared - as long as the budget is under $20... no, I'll eat next week.. er.. later, no I'm not bitter... haha, no I don't hate everybody, that would be stupid... more wine? Yes... just lift the carboard tab and squeeze the plastic thingy... mmmmm, voted best vintage of last month...
Apt that a generous xmas present, an eight-year-old single malt and close companion these past weeks - but alas now consumed, was named 'Trails End'.
Verily does this seem the case on so many levels.
Yet despite these carfangling particpals Ms. Jones, it is with some significant comfort that I find in our mutual mindsets, but no wonder that I too remain,
Yours - perhaps soon if I'm lucky - destined to die alone,
Eaten by cats.