Sometimes a bully only needs a target. Maybe I did something to this guy, maybe I didn’t. All I can recall is he traumatized (and continues to traumatize) me throughout my youth.

I lived in fear. And paranoia. I still do.

Is he around the next corner? And what will I do if he is?

I’d like to think, that as adults, we’ll continue to ignore each other’s very existence. Yet, what about when the alcohol flows. What then?

—

Bullying was encouraged in my high school. How else were these little pussy boys going to learn to defend themselves?

Hell, even my gym teacher was a child… taking a wet towel snap at a student in the shower.

I suppose we turned out alright. For the most part, anyway. And perhaps, we should be thankful that if a fight broke out on his watch—or the guidance counselor, or the shop teacher—that an effort was made to keep it fair. But, no interference.

Thanks, coach.

—

I don’t remember much about my bully’s youth. His little brother had palsy, or some shit like that, and he used it to be an asshole, just like his big brother. Victim of shitty genetics AND a bully. How does that even work? My god, they were both assholes.

And, I remember their dad had died when they were very young. Toddlers, maybe. Legend has it he was an asshole too. Lost his head—literally—running a snowmobile through a barbed wire fence.

And their mom was pretty, and had no trouble finding shelter for her and her boys.

Oh, I’ll bet those boys resented all of the father-figures that strolled in and out of their lives.

I don’t think that qualifies as a license to be a total asshole. Yet, what do I know?

—

I haven’t even seen this man in decades. Nor thought about him. And there he was, in real life, standing there with a shit-eating grin next to his best buddy, wearing the same grin—minus about forty IQ points.

Then they locked eyes on me. And realized who they are looking at. And I discovered the years had been kinder to their teeth than they had to mine, for I could count them all.

And I felt the familiar sensation. Pure, unadulterated fear. As he moved across the room to pick up a pool cue. And his asshole buddy followed, grabbing one of his own.

Then they approach. Slowly. Deliberately. Still smiling those idiotic smiles.

All I wanted to do, tonight, is finish my laundry, finish my beer, and go to bed.

And now, these assholes, and in my laundrobar, walking toward me, performing test swings with pool cues like they’re testing the balance of a hatchet for cutting fire wood.

Fucking wonderful. Some things never change.

—

Confession: I never learned to fight. Saying that as a grown man is shameful. Looking back at my childhood, my high school bullies are part of that. As a small, chubby kid, it was far easier to hide.

To pretend I didn’t exist.

How small can I get against the wall? The edge of the seat on the bus? Or inside a locker in the girls’ locker room?

Yeah, I let the girls hide me.

No wonder I am a fucking mess with no friends. And can’t relate to men, at all. Nor can I keep a woman. I wouldn’t be attracted to me either. After that first fuck, anyway.

Unfortunate penis, indeed.

—

These assholes are still approaching me. They’ve split up, and one of them has a fucking Roman candle in his back pocket.

I feel so small. I’m in the best shape of my life, yet have no idea what to do or how to do it, there’s two of them—each one twice my size, with no qualms about fighting dirty.

Maybe this is a reckoning. Lady Fortune is dealing judgement for my growing up to be such a pussy. For not doing anything about this asshole when I was a fat youth. As such, somehow I’ll be to blame when the incendiary device burns down the fucking laundrobar.

At least, I can probably miss jury duty tomorrow.

Not long ago, an acquaintance introduced me to the term: projector archetype.

He was using it to identify himself, but…

Anyway, what a projector does is he/she enters the room. Surveys the room, to get an idea of what the room wants from him/her. Once that decision is made, the performance begins. And, boy, does he/she shine!

Different room with different players? Different performance. On a date? Anything she/he wants.

Makes it mind-blowingly hard to be authentic, don’t you think?

So, I mentioned, but…

Because in a crowd, or a room of strangers, or in times of discomfort… with more than one girl, I, too, am a projector. Everybody loves me. Or hates me. Whatever they want.

Yet, one-on-one? That is when you’ll get to know the real me. Authentically.

How do I know? Because I ask. I want to learn at the feet of women. And they love to teach. They want real men.

Not projectors. Not even when the room fills up.

Oh, Snapchat.

How I hate to love you. And love to hate you.

That sense of joy—and dread—when that yellow heart appears. Or disappears. What is the metric that determines that? Exactly?

When you’re best girl is pissed, and doesn’t respond for a week. The yellow heart transfers to the next best girl. And your best slips a notch. Or six.

Then she’s back. We’re messaging. The bond is stronger than ever. Eight days go by. Nine.

Number two is going to get the red heart after all!

Day ten, flip. Messaging both girls heavily. Did she flinch when the icon changed? Not to the red heart, but to the smiley?

Clearly, I spend entirely too much time thinking about how Snapchat functions…

Hours later, she was still thinking about it. She couldn’t believe the audacity in such a request.

He hadn’t even asked her. He had only shown her what he wanted on a piece of paper. Buried. In a to-do list. She could still imagine the twinkle of mischieviousness in his eyes.

Yet…

What harm would it do? She had to admit that her tits were pretty fantastic! She tried to remember if she had bragged about how perfect they are to him. And they probably wouldn’t always be. And she knew him well enough to imagine what joy and delight seeing them would bring to his eyes—maybe she was a little curious to see that expression.

Besides, it’s not like he asked to touch them. Even if he did, would that be so bad? Hell, she might even enjoy it. She felt a slight tingle just thinking about it.

What an act of kindness! Neither of them would live forever, why not share a tender moment? After all, she did like the audacious jackass… and lord knows she had shown them to bigger assholes than him.

So, yeah. She was considering it.

Maybe, she’d surprise him. Show him suddenly when he least expects it… and smile when his jaw hit the floor.

Nothing happens when you die. Nothing.

Ask how I know.

If you’re lucky, you left something behind. A legacy, if you will. Or maybe a mystery.

The only thing that is certain is you are no longer there to protect your secrets. Your lies.

There’s no light. No angel. No second chances.

Or, there is a third possibility.

Maybe no one will even notice you are gone. No legacy. No mystery. Simply a void. But really, who among us is that lucky?

I’ll never forget how much you cared. You were the only one who checked in on me.

Hell, I didn’t even care. Maybe that’s the problem.

And now. You’re gone. There are hints on the socials that you still care, but you are careful to hide them.

And now. There is another. She cares. She checks in on me—even when I don’t care about myself. Yes, maybe that’s the problem.

Like you, she’s beautiful. And charming. And fascinating. And crazy smart. And she’ll leave some day. And that keeps me guarded against her.

And it’s hard to care about someone who doesn’t care about himself.

Yes. Maybe I’m the problem. And that’s fine. And once again, I will say goodbye to the one who knows me best. And slink back into the shadows. Where I belong.

I enjoy my solitude. I really do.

Buuut…

Never have I ever felt so alone.

I really like(d) you. I enjoy your perspective. Your insights.

And now I’ve made a big mistake. And you’re gone. And I’m alone.

I guess I don’t learn.

What i'm listening to:

Would?
Alice in Chains
Dirt