I don’t do well in a crowd. In fact, I hate crowds. Given a choice I will always move to the less occupied.
I have gone days without uttering a word, I’m perfectly happy to be alone.
Until I don’t
Some days I want to be with someone, then the ache sets in. Like a broken bone, the dull but insistent painful ache can’t be ignored. The only way to fix the pain is to go meet someone new and different or drink a shitload of vodka.
I prefer company to a drunken bender, but sometimes I have no choice. It’s not easy to turn off my hermits visage, people avoid me, which is why I’ve cultivated that look, but when I burn for touch, the look lingers and the longing goes unrequited.
I see those facile guys, so comfortable in their deception and I hate them. But then girls see my face and run. The wall repels all, without distinction or avarice. I can’t help it. Hell, I can’t really stand my own company, it’s asking a lot for a stranger to take that leap.
Sometimes alcohol is kinder.
© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2014