My heart hurts so much right now that if I were a poet I could make the world cry with a single verse. If I were one with my art supplies, my Muse and I would be crying into the Ultramarine and Cad Yellow Medium wondering, of course, if maybe the Pthalo Blue wouldn't have been a better choice.
This kind of pain should be producing something besides puddles of tears on my pillow. If not for the inks and paints at least it should produce something more in my day job, those woe filled hours in which I toil and spin my wheels. All I have produced is the unwaivering conviction that I have so thoroughly suceeded in my bluff that no one will call it.
A good friend, a dear old mate from school, told me he always thought I had my poop in a group and was pretty well settled. Since it followed a small pity party in which I wondered aloud what the hell was wrong with me, I feel confident I can say my dear friend thought that I was so well put together that I didnt need anybody. The bluff.
The hand I hold is far less certain than my friend or I have made me sound. I do need someone, many someones. I don;t need a guy to screw in lightbulb. I don't need a guy to kill my spiders, trap my mice, change my water faucets, lay my ceramic tile, install a toilet or any number of household items. I don't really need a guy to fight my battles FOR me. With would be nice, But I can fight my own battles. And thus, I have given the world the impression that I don't need a guy in my life.
Sure, I win the hand. Ante is mine homies. But, like the boys say, money can't buy love and it sure as hell doesn't buy anything good from the relationship department.
