Dear Fellow Member of Society,
Here we both are, swimming upstream in this. I do not know where you need to spawn. I do not care. That’s not my business. We will both eventually die in the abyss.
I am sorry my arbitrary set of rules and regulations I have created for myself and crystallized my behavior around conflicts with yours.
I realize in the grand scheme of things neither of them matters more than the other. It doesn’t really matter if there’s space for pedestrians in front of you or behind me or if someone’s in the intersection or if someone has eleven items in a line at a checkstand or if you aren’t carpooling or if you don’t cover your mouth or whatever fifty years from now when I’m dead or dying. I won’t care then. But right now I’m caught in minutia because they give me the illusion of control over something, just something, anything, a slippery sense of falling off into the void, and you got in the way. You got in the way of my feeling powerful over loss of ego. Ego is really what I need to lose.
I am sorry if I made you feel less that the amount of respect other human beings deserve. I’m working on it, but sometimes I need to work harder than others. I am sorry if I hurt you.
So we’re cleaning up from dinner and I can’t remember the exact context and I said something and He said something else and I said, “Look, I, I’ll do anything that you want me to do, but I can’t go for that. No, no can do.”
“That song’s totally about doing it in the butt,” he said.
I think it’s about about swinging. It was the 80s.
Wait, it is? This increases my love for Hall and Oates if it’s so.
What say you?
Plus: someone on YouTube pointed out that Daryl Hall had the hair of Wolverine.
And I just had to tell Him: it was much foggier in the 1980s. I can’t explain it just was.
Addendum: we weren’t talking about doing it in the butt. I would have remembered that.
OR WERE WE?