A Pathetic Apology

I’m a sad case for a writer, considering I’ve never written anything of much value. Perhaps this admonition will embiggen your spirit (if you are a small man [and please note here I do not give in to this political correctness scam] or, if you are already inflated of ego, then it will lift you to new heights) or simply make you feel sorry for me. I don’t mind the latter, as this is how I’ve gotten into most of my recent relationships (despite their few-and-far-between characteristics). No matter what you think of me, let’s all agree upon this (and if you’re not into the prospect of blind agreement, please read no further): my correspondence to you is enjoyable, and if nothing else, provides a welcome vacation from the dullaries of everyday life listed as follows: caring about things, employment, laundry, dishes, talking and/or interacting with a significant other or family member (girlfriend/boyfriend, husband/wife, mother, brother, father, imaginary troll that lives under the bed and makes strange noises in the night [making you jolt awake terrified as you try to adjust your eyes to the darkness not daring in that instant to reach over and turn on the lamp, heart pumping, I hate that fucking troll]).

Despite my deep and intrinsic sadness, perhaps we can all find some value in these lighthearted ponderings: you, read these pathetic attempts at stringing words together in a coherent fashion and smile, perhaps, at the very least, not cry. Me, while my tears soak the paper of drafts 1 to 6 of this letter, feel a small sense of satisfaction of having made a difference. Albeit this difference is so small, so insignificant as to barely register in the annals of history, I’ll concede that it is not completely in vain. Someday, someone somewhere somehow (seemingly: a Somalian Sommelier summering south of Spain) will read these words tattooed onto the rear end of his camel (how these words became tattooed on the rear end of a camel, or why the Somalian was so closely examining its rear end I fear we shall never divine) and say “Gadzooks! This was a troubled man, let us remember him for what he was: a lazy, good-for-nothing vagabond with a poor work ethic and fear of personal relationships.”

The point of this discourse I have long forgotten, but the means by which we have gotten to this point are clear: one man, meaning to move mountains merely by mentioning miraculous memories. I apologize, I am regretful, I rescind my rights to regale you with tales of love and scurvy at sea. You’ve suffered at the behest my penstroke long enough. I have taken so many liberties with language that I should by all intents and purposes do the honourable thing and ask its father for its hand in marriage. It would, at minimum, legitimize our bastard love child borne of too many Simpsons re-runs. And it is with a heavy heart and a weathered spirit in which I leave you no better than I found you, but with this humble apology to carry you on your way.

May a Shark Bite Me,


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