of The Benighted

April 10, 2016

Screen Shot 2016-04-10 at 7.25.26 AMPerhaps I should be flattered.

The Universe, feeling particularly randy yesterday, thought to seek me out for it’s unsolicited attentions. Bending me over and wearing me out the day through.

What could a guy, like me, who pretty much has everything they could hope for: my health, a nice home, a beautiful, wonderful and devoted Woman, Friends, purpose, liberty, groceries, and every conceivable modern convenience…have to complain about?

Well, do take your inevitable “first world problems” cliché and do choke on it.

Thoughts of the swollen bellies and fly encrusted eyes of mournful Ethiopian children, do nothing to stem the tide of rage that engulfs me when everything, every single thing, I touch turns to shit.
When that happens and I’m in the throes of unrestrained choler, the plight of all third world nations become inconsequential to me.

How could they not when the only supplied washer for the thing I’m bloodying my knuckles on trying to assemble, has vanished into thin air, vaporised.
I saw it fall, heard it, and replayed it in slow motion again and again, as I searched in vain.
Poof.
Leaving me reflecting on hours of now fruitless effort and staring down at parts unassembled, completely useless.

So don’t come at me with starving masses, Bro. My struggle is real.

A sane person, would have known what was to follow. That the nature of wanton inexplicability is the harbinger of bad tidings.
A sane person, would have repaired again back to bed, grasping the futility and resigning to begin again, afresh, the next day.
Needless to say…
The Universe had Viagra’d up and I, it’s little bitch.

The rare times I’m of a mind to ponder it, I often consider that God is trying to teach me patience. A good lesson to learn but, for me, possibly my greatest hurdle.
Like my Father before me, I am not a patient man.
Nor am I mellowing in my old age. Quite the contrary, much to Gods disappointment.

I can’t say if it’s a matter of temperament or if, feeling the press of time, I suffer fools less gladly. Either way, I suffer them barely and make it plain enough.

But today, a new day, haltingly I rise and swing my legs out to put them to the floor, hoping to find it still there and not having fallen away.
Today, a new day, I will reflect, as the morning wanes and petrichor wafts, on my countless blessings, of how fortunate I am to only face the minor trials of misplaced washers.
That, if the Universe, sated, could move on to it’s next lover, I would strive to be a better Man.

Because if I think, even for a moment, it’s hard being me, it’s pales compared to being with me.

Apologies, my Dear, you are a Saint.

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