Telling It

How did I do? Did I appear adequately concerned? Did I nod and project empathy at all the right points? That’s good. That’s amazing, in fact, because I’m so bored by your endless, pointless whining that it’s a wonder I don’t suddenly lose voluntary muscle control at the sound of your voice.

What do you want from me? You want another pat solution, another easy fix? Where’s your solution? Hell, where’s your fucking point? Because it doesn’t sound like you came prepared with either. It sounds to me like you want me, once again, to fix things for you, in spite of you, just because you had the nerve to come down here and spew a litany of trivial complaints at my feet. Well, you’ve wasted an hour of your time, I’m sorry to tell you, because I don’t have a white horse and a flaming sword, and frankly, even if I did I wouldn’t use them in your defense.

I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you running to me, crying for me to take out the bad guys every time you feel pissed off or pissed on or just generally pissy. I’m a little busy picking up the pieces of my own fuck-ups and putting my life back together to drop everything and rescue you from yourself for the eleven thousandth time.

I wish just once you’d surprise me and act like you at least tried to fight one of your own stupid battles. You pick these fights without realizing that you not only don’t know what you’re fighting for, but you don’t have even one one-hundredth of what it takes to finish it. That’s where I come in, right? I’m your righteous anger, your strong right arm, your avenging angel. I swoop in at the eleventh hour to make sense of your misdirected rage and clean up the detritus of your personal shitstorm.

Well, no more. I’m done. Get your own fucking hammer and sword and finish what you started. You go back there and figure out where you went wrong, you make your humble apologies and maybe, if you don’t fuck it up too badly, you might get to walk away in one piece. But if you don’t? If you don’t, I don’t want to hear about it; not a word, not a tear, not one single martyred, hangdog look. You’re on your own.

Because I post here, I don’t really have anything to post here. I might try someday anyway. . I don’t accept notes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t comment.