How do you stop turning your head and easing off the gas when passing by a gruesome wreck on the highway? At what point have you become comfortably numb to the carnage and saturated with eleven million seasons of Walking Dead gore? Well, a man knows when to walk away from a burning foyer and step into the wasteland with that baseball bat in hand. 2016 is the year I became a man. Not for naught… I have experienced the sorrowful loss of a lovely lass to a rival suitor and the bitterness of unrequited love before:
I first saw her along the bank of an unnamed tributary digging up Badenian mollusks with a stone chisel. I watched her, mesmerized, from behind a screen of willow branches as she bent to her task, grunting contentedly, her breasts swaying lazily and bra-less ‘neath a frayed Def Leppard t-shirt. Small beads of perspiration dribbled steadily from her heavy brow… falling harmlessly to the hardened sand and evaporating like leaking petrol on hot asphalt.
Moving quietly through the willows, her nose twitched as that of a frightened meadow viper and her head swung my direction. She rose abruptly from her position on squatty, muscular legs – dropping mollusks but firmly clutching the chisel. Her dull, expressionless face framed a pair of jaundiced eyes that glistened like Cēpacol® in a highball glass. We stood there, suspended in the matrix, staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I asked her if she would like to join me for supper. She disappeared quickly into the brush and I never saw her again.
I came to find out later she ran off with a flamboyant, mustachioed Pro-Gamer with a penchant for tattoos and a history of moderate to severe Crohn’s disease.