At least three times now, I’ve said something like:

“I used to be so funny, you know? Crazy, you might say. Outrageous. Always ready with a pun, a joke, a quip, or, on one memorable occasion, a taser aimed directly at my best friend’s butt.”

On some nights — nights I wished were cold, because cold nights are better for sadness, and because there is a completely different kind of sadness to a cold night that is only cold because of A/C — I have thought:

“I used to be this very passionate, very intense individual. And boy, could I love.”

On some days, when I’m walking around, looking at people, sometimes feeling like I can almost see the world from their perspective, and sometimes feeling like they are not completely real, I remember when I used to walk up to strangers and ask them for a picture and a story.

I was not always wise.

Okay, I was never wise.

But I was, at least, entertaining.

And then something happened.

I did not mature. That would be too dignified.

I became boring.

It definitely didn’t happen from one day to the next.

But one day you’re having so much fun that life feels like a blur. One day your two best friends dress you as a girl. The next, you’re camping somewhere up in the mountains. The day after that, you decide that going down a mountain on a bike is a great idea.

It wasn’t.

People said you would fall.

You didn’t.

But the chain exploded, and you ended up on the floor, covered in road rash, roaring with laughter.

There was a doctor.

You tried to hit on him.

You’re not even gay, but he was a beautiful doctor, and who are you to discriminate?

I think he kinda seemed into it.

“No drinking for a few days,” he said. “You’ll get scars.”

“Sure thing, doctor,” you said, saintly.

And then you drained two bottles of tequila.

Fucking tequila, man.

And yeah, it wasn’t even a weekend. This was happening during a probably very busy work week.

There were two overlapping photo sessions, because some fucking idiot — me — had scheduled shoots with both models and forgotten to check the date.

Boy, they were not happy.

You’d think they would have loved shooting together.

You’d be wrong.

The arts student, who had wanted nothing more than to watch and participate in a nude shoot, got nervous.

You had to kick him out onto the roof to cool off.

Fucking amateur.

Heh.

Amateur.

That shoot was a mess, man.

Years later, you hear that one of the models wanted you to make a move.

You never find out which.

No time to wonder.

A few days later, you’re singing “Seek and Destroy” by Metallica and having a great time.

Then you return to routine and behave like an adult for about a fortnight.

Then, disaster.

Girl’s pregnant.

She insists it’s yours.

You’re either in for a biology lesson or a great part in a new religion.

You explain the facts of life.

Now she hates you.

What the fuck?

Okay.

Let’s stop remembering that July.

If we get to August, there will be a hell of a sexy non-sexual story, and something about asking pufferfish for permission to pull on their cheeks.

Nobody has time for that.

Christ’s sake.

I look back at my younger self with a mixture of awe, disgust, and love.

That bastard should’ve been boiled in Clorox before being allowed anywhere near civilized company.

For his crimes.

The man who always had open doors. Who was always receiving. Who needed to cook for a battalion every day because people simply arrived at his home, and the laws of hospitality demanded that everyone be fed and watered before going home.

And then, because apparently that was not enough, drove around the whole fucking city dropping people off safely at home.

All that, except maybe the pregnancy, fits neatly into the life of someone in his twenties.

But very few of those things fit into the life of someone walking fast toward forty.

Especially not the pregnancy.

The reality of life is that it is not only meant to be lived.

It also teaches.

And, because it has terrible manners, it usually teaches by hurting.

The introverted learn, eventually, to open the door.

The too-extroverted — the ones who want to befriend everyone, feed everyone, photograph everyone, love everyone, and drive everyone home — learn the hard way that strangers are strangers for a reason.

You risk yourself by trusting them.

Then someone breaks that trust and it’s all gone.

Introversion returns.

But maybe, after those first few disappointments, I was still fun.

Hell, I had a great time during COVID.

I watched movies. Read books. Ate amazing home-cooked bread.

I also got to learn what toxic really means.

What trapped feels like.

And even if I had always been a bit misanthropic — and I won’t even try to reconcile that with all the socializing, deal with it — there is a difference between being misanthropic and becoming a misanthrope.

COVID helped with that.

So did love.

Or whatever that was.

And then, obviously, there is another doctor.

This one is also very handsome.

You won’t admit it. Not even to yourself.

But you do not want to hit on him.
There is a joke in there somewhere. Something about buying you dinner before getting inside of you.

You are afraid.
You may be dying.

And you find some solace in knowing that, not so long ago, there was a version of you who had so much fun, who was so much fun, that his memory can still shelter you from the darkness gathering around you.

It is a strange thing, to be protected by someone you no longer are.

But there he is.

Loud. Stupid. Warm. Bruised. Laughing.

Still useful, somehow.

Still making me laugh.

The bastard.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kisr3daNRx0

Again, no advice. Peace.