Posts Tagged ‘sympathy’

Terrible things happen every single day. Every day someone’s best friend dies. Can you imagine? All 364 days in the year (I’m not buying into that Roman 365 days crap) someone loses their best mate forever. Other bad things happen too. Countries get invaded. Pets get sucked into airplane propellers. Cell phones drop in toilets. All devastating, but all occurring on a daily basis. My vow I plan to take, no longer asking for pity from others.

It’s tough. I’ve always been one of those people who tries to “one up” the others in how bad their life is. My whole family is the same way. It’s like that one scene from that one Lethal Weapon movie when they compare scars. When my family does it things don’t end on hot, compassionate, violent sex. Most the times at least it doesn’t. What makes someone try to make their life sound so bad? Well, it gets pity. Pity gives an emotion. Having people feel bad for you can be a drug. It’s a childish thing. To want to hear “Awww” then be hugged because you ordered something spicy at a restaurant and don’t have enough beverage to chase it. I use that example because it is one I’m sure someone in my family has tried. We really are a bundle of Non-Joyful Debbie Downers.

(I make way too many Lethal Weapon references despite never actually watching a whole one through. I blame the Six Flags stunt show)

My clan is not the only guilty party in this. Oh no child. Lots of people are. The one which really gets my goat is when people complain about work. Either their boss is a dick or they cannot go out and party because their schedule was changed last-minute. Your life is that fantastic your biggest complaint is you have to make more money? What would you have done with that time anyway? Gone out to eat and gotten fatter? At least now you have a few extra bucks. But of course you will be cheap anyway when people ask you if you want to actually do something interesting. Maybe it’s me, but I’d rather do one amazing thing per year than a lot of time-wasting money costing events. I’d give examples, but I am the last person who should give examples of things that are not fun. I think I could fall asleep looking at earth from outer space.

 (You see beauty and how precious life can be. I see an ice-cube or cracked nail up close)

Sympathy is something I have also had a little bit trouble understanding. Or is it empathy? I’m really not clear on the difference. Like alligators and crocodiles. I know one lives in salt water. But by the time I get close enough to sip the water I’m being chased by the alligator or crocodile and I forget which lives where. People try to get a lot of sympathy for the way they live their lives. They will make mention of how sick they feel or how little they have eaten lately. As much as I hate people who shop at Whole Foods, they take care of themselves. They only complain about ozone layer holes and other exaggerations. People who eat well and exercise feel really good. Physically and emotionally. I know I go crazy if I go a while without exercise, especially when my diet has been half brownies. So please, if you’re near me and you feel like shit and there is not a salad in front of your face, shut it.

One of my biggest peeves on this subject are people who try to get me to feel bad for them based on the people in their lives. Example, people who use their parents as a barricade. I know my parents were never strict, but I have a hard time believing someone who can vote, possibly drink, and knows not only what a Cleveland Steamer is but also where to get one, will allow themselves to get pushed around by someone three times their age. Yeah, some people have scary parents. I had someone tell me to call their dad sir. Unless you’re Paul McCartney’s daughter you have no reason for people to call your father sir. He didn’t earn a thing. If someone ever tells me to call them sir again I’m forcing them to call me doctor. When they don’t I’m punching them in the face. Who are the cops going to believe? A guy who goes around thinking he’s a knight? Probably not.

(All those years at medical school and Dr. Doomsday becomes a super villain. Imagine how the people he gave prostate exams to feel now)

I don’t own too many nice things. I find owning crappy items is a major pity plea. I kind of enjoy having such horrible outdated objects. When it breaks I don’t feel too bad. Words such as “just” are thrown before possessions to make them seem not so glamorous. Sometimes this is used as a reverse tactic. “Oh it’s just a 9883 Fender Gibson Les Claypool guitar. No big deal.” or whatever a type of fancy guitar is. The only time I use the word “just” in a negative way is when ordering water at a restaurant. “I’ll just have water” saying it as if anything else could kill me. Feel bad for me! My beverage has no flavor. I guess hipsters have made owning clothes with blood stains cool again. Hipsters of course being the biggest pity pissers of all. They make themselves look ugly so we stop and tell them they’re beautiful. I hate dark poets so much. How about picking a favorite movie other than The Crow? It’s really just Robocop filmed with a bit less light.

(Did I say “just” Robocop! I did it again!)

Now I will need your help to make sure I don’t turn anything into attempts at sympathy. Call me out on it. Mail a bomb to me. Do whatever you can to get me to stop. Being subtle about sympathy is not far off from fishing for compliments. Another societal problem, but one I will work on later to fix. With my vow I eliminate a lot of compassion. This may seem evil, but it is misplaced compassion. Better used on important things like truly lost individuals in need of help. If your tummy is bothering you because you got really drunk last night I will not flinch my face to make a false frown. When your parents boss you around and make you feel any sort of guilt I will tell you to act your age. Finally, when I feel like you send out a negative vibe on the state of your life for the sole reason to get me to say “Awww” I will simply stop listening. You have me in your life. Things can’t be all that bad.

I had a two paragraph introduction that involved an Indian girl getting her diaper changed in a library bathroom while I urinated only feet away. It seemed like too much of a distraction so I’d like to get right into the purpose of today without getting too detailed into child diaper changing station etiquette.

I had a choice of two places to sit down at the library. One was next to an old woman with reading glasses and the other was next to a guy with a hat. I sat next to the older woman. Perhaps she had a granddaughter. And maybe if I’m lucky I remind her of the guy who deflowered her in 1957, Mitch Timmons. She can relive some sick vicarious fantasy through her granddaughter. That’s what caused me to sit next to the older woman. Thank goodness I’m crazy. Sitting next to hat-face might have turned out worse.

(Mitch Timmons hanging out with his boy Sticky looking cool with their tucked in shirts and hatred off all things square)

Things were going smoothly as they always go at the library. I don’t think I saw the guy who I’m convinced is a huge drug kingpin. I won’t go into exactly why I think he’s a drug kingpin because it would seem racist. I am writing a television pilot based around him though so stay tuned for that to never go anywhere. The guy with the hat whom I will from now on call Bojangles began talking to the black woman next to him. She seemed like your average black woman in her 50s. She was well-spoken, wearing a purple blouse, and was looking at pictures of Oprah online then claiming that they were the same person. Bojangles began talking to her and I heard him mention that he watched some Boy Scouts event at the mall across the street earlier. “Great, a queer” I thought. “Better get out a rope to drag him through town” chimed in a mind reader pointing out my derogatory summation.

The conversation continued and if you haven’t figured it out by the name I chose for him, Bojangles mentioned that he was a homeless. I never would have guessed it either. He seemed like any guy in a band. My guess was he was 30-years-old tops. Basically, he looked too normal to have fallen through the cracks of society. I would have guessed he worked at Hot Topic and enjoyed watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. For a brief moment I thought to myself we could be friends. Then he started talking and I was happy with my choice of sitting next to Murder She Wrote.

(Angela Lansbury gets off on writing about brutal murders)

Further into his life Bojangles went with the black woman. They talked about how he had made a few mistakes. He had apparently gotten with the wrong girl. Because we of course all know, whatever a woman does a man should always follow. Dating a girl and that causing you to become homeless makes you the most pussy whipped man of all time. I’ve heard of guys ditching friends or seeing bad movies for a girl, but never doing so much where it led to you becoming homeless.

Not wanting to invite Bojangles to stay with her, the black woman asked him if he had any family. He said he did but they lived in New York and he didn’t want to bother them with his problems. That makes sense. Because a family isn’t supposed to help you out with things like having a place to live. I’ve said it before, but you need to be one shitty person to not have a single family member or friend to live with. How many bodies did Bojangles have to walk over to get to this place in his life? That place being at a South Jersey library on a Sunday afternoon. You know, heaven on earth.

The black woman was so kind she offered Bojangles information on a friend of hers who might be hiring for a construction job. At least that’s what I heard. I was starting to get really angry that my mind began to drift. Bojangles complained about how his ex-landlord screwed him over and stole his computers. Now you’re getting a little too James Bond for me. If my computer was ever stolen I’d probably follow-up with a police report. I started to think Bojangles was a liar. I knew for a fact that he was a liar when he said he comes to the library to read and I saw a really nice laptop in front of him. So there’s a homeless man giving out his sob story and he owns a laptop. I think his computers weren’t the only thing stolen by the landlord. I think that greasy Italian also took Bojangles’s sense of priorities. You can live your life however you want and prioritize it in any order. For me it goes Food-Shelter-Transportation-Phone-Computer. Something like that. Maybe toss in deep personal relationships with other human beings. I’m still undecided about that one. Bojangles has really turned me off from all human contact.

(Gee, I wonder what this evil landlord is going to get Betty Boop to do to him for her late rent payment)

Like any member of the downtrodden, Bojangles had complaints about politics. He went on and on about the city of Camden. You’ve probably never been to Camden. You’re reading this which means you’re alive. It’s not a very good city. Imagine an infant shitty blood. Now make that a city. You have Camden. Bojangles also made mention of how he used to own a pizza place in 1997. Well there goes my theory of him being 30. I was 10 when he owned a pizza place. The home run record was still 61. Fight Club was only a book. Osama Bin Laden was just a lanky Arab with bowlegs. How did Bojangles through all of this away to end up in the same place as I was? There’s nothing wrong with making mistakes. Starting over is sometimes the only way to get through a difficult time. But please, spare the sob story.