Monday, June 3, 2013

Mildly drawing in the dregs of society since 1987

As I get older, I’ve come to come to accept many things about myself.
                For example, as much as I enjoy them, I’ll never be very good at team sports. I’m tall, spindly and highly uncoordinated. Hardly the recipe you need to be the Michael Jordan of the beer league.
                Another fact of my life? I’m a mildly-powerful douchebag magnet, or “douche-magnet” in technical terms.
                Not too powerful. I feel like most of the people I’ve drawn into my inner circle are grade-A individuals. But just powerful enough that douchebags seem to always be floating around the periphery of my existence.
                I’m not sure what it is that brings them in, maybe it’s my boyish face and inability to grow a full beard.
                One of the places where this is most evident: When I’m out wandering the streets.
                I get more catcalls from passing cars or other walkers on average than a well-endowed blonde lady jogging through a city full of construction sites.

                Well, maybe not that many, but still a decent amount considering how poorly-endowed and dark-haired I am.
                Usually it’s just fairly unoriginal stuff about me making love to other gentlemen and things of that nature.
                For a while there, it really kind of bugged me. Like, what was it about me that made for such a juicy target? Or did I just have a knack for perpetually finding myself in the crosshairs of people who wield gay slurs like Arnold wielded that minigun in “T-2?”
                It still does bug me, to be honest. Hell, I’m going on about it here, so it clearly bugs me.
                After all, when I’m in my vehicle, cruising the scene as I’m wont to do, I’m usually doing one of three things:
  • Singing along loudly and out of key to a song you haven’t heard since 1998
  • Deep in thought while listening to a podcast, or
  • Talking to one of my favorite people, myself.
                The last thing I’m thinking about doing is interjecting myself – either pleasantly or not – into the lives of the people around me.
                Still, it doesn’t irk me as much as it used to. I’ve accepted it as my lot in life. And as far as lots go, I could have drawn much worse.
                And I’m getting too old to concern myself with such matters. I’ve got two cats with a total of seven legs whose very lives depend on me. That’s the type of responsibility that force feeds some perspective into a man.
                If you’re the kind of person who enjoys involving himself – or herself, though I say that more as a formality, we all know this breed of asshat is usually of the male persuasion – ask yourself: “Where are my two cats with seven total legs?” Why is my life so bleak that I feel the need to briefly darken someone else’s?
                If you are that person, I urge you, find your two cats with seven total legs before it’s too late. Before you become the elderly version of the cat-caller: the old guy on the block who’s too old to mow his own lawn, too poor to pay someone else to do it and too much of a prick for anyone to help him out.

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