Here We Fucking Are

I started drinking gin and tonic around five.

At some point there was no more gin.

So now it's vodka and Sprite.

There is yogurt.

There are peanuts.

Music is playing.

At the other end of the bed, the gargoyle is passed out under a blanket.

The gargoyle is my giant fucking dog.

She has absolutely no opinion about any of this.

Honestly, she may be the wisest creature involved.

It is after one in the morning.

I have not called anybody.

This somehow feels worth noting.

Not because I haven't communicated with anybody.

Oh no.

Packets have been dispatched.

Humanity has been contacted.

Humanity has responded.

Results are mixed.

Martin

I sent Martin the blog.

The blog explains Discount Store Marcus Aurelius.

The blog contains the fucking character.

The philosophy.

The cart.

The whole goddamn thing.

Then I referenced Discount Store Marcus Aurelius.

Martin replied:

“Huh?”

Okay.

The documentation was provided.

Read it.

Don't read it.

Ask a question.

Don't ask a question.

I am not opening a support ticket for the documentation I already sent you.

Discount Store Marcus Aurelius out.

The Serbian Girl

Then there was the Serbian girl.

We talked for about an hour.

Parents.

Stoicism.

Detachment.

The system.

Human beings being human beings.

She said she'd call again.

Then she asked if it was okay if she didn't call again because she wanted to watch a podcast and sleep.

Sure.

Do what makes you happy.

I wanted somebody to talk to.

She didn't want to talk.

Fine.

Then three hours later she started texting me again.

I was confused.

She explained herself.

I said what I said.

She said some version of:

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Also fine.

I had already said what I meant.

She could disagree.

She could explain.

She could call.

She could not call.

She could disappear forever.

I wasn't asking for a defense.

If you want to talk to me, you have my number.

Call me.

If you don't?

Don't.

Humanity continues.

Ethan and Sandra

Earlier in the day I did Bible study.

Yes.

Uncle Ben.

Bible study.

I know.

We started with Romans 14.

Then Romans 1.

Then Paul.

Then Rome.

Then Jesus.

Then Seneca.

Then Nero.

Then Claudius.

Then Roman society.

Then barbarians.

Then Dan fucking Carlin.

Because apparently my brain is not a brain.

It is a linked list assembled by a drunk software engineer with no garbage collector.

Sandra asked a question about Romans.

Pointer.

Roman history.

Pointer.

Barbarians.

Pointer.

Dan Carlin.

Suddenly I'm explaining Roman shit and thinking:

Why the fuck do I know this?

Because I love history.

That's why.

I am not a historian.

I just know some shit.

And Ethan and Sandra do something that matters enormously to me.

They ask questions.

They answer mine.

They meet me where I am.

Not because they understand me completely.

Half the fucking time I don't understand me completely.

They engage.

That's it.

Tonight I sent Ethan a message thanking him and Sandra for doing this with me.

For meeting me exactly where I am.

For letting me ask all my fucking questions.

He can respond.

He can not respond.

I meant it.

So I said it.

Then Tinder Happened

Because apparently the evening still wasn't ridiculous enough.

I matched with a woman named Nikolina.

Her bio made me laugh.

Not because it was bad.

Because it was fucking direct.

She has a son.

She has extra kilos.

She has opinions.

She doesn't fly.

There.

Human being.

Presented as supplied.

I told her I laughed out loud reading it.

She said she'd spent time on the bio.

I told her:

“You shouldn't have. Be yourself.”

She replied:

“That's what I spend time on.”

I didn't understand.

So I did something apparently revolutionary in human communication.

I asked:

“You spend time on what exactly?”

She answered.

On being herself.

Because apparently being yourself on dating apps is difficult.

Fair.

Then I told her:

“I'm down to do face to face. Anytime and anywhere. Just bring yourself.”

Excellent.

Strong statement.

Clear.

Approximately one fucking moment later I remembered something.

I have limited mobility.

So I corrected the operational specification.

And then I wrote:

“Excuse me for being so ridiculous.”

Pause.

Thought about it.

No.

“But not really.”

And then I started laughing.

Because apparently that is where we are now.

Excuse Me for Being So Ridiculous

That sentence may be Uncle Ben distilled into seven words.

Excuse me for being so ridiculous. But not really.

I know it's ridiculous.

I can see the ridiculousness while I'm doing it.

Sometimes I'm laughing before I even finish typing the fucking sentence.

But I'm not apologizing for existing in the ridiculousness.

I'm here.

This is apparently what came out.

Deal with it.

Or don't.

Nobody Needed Calling

At several points tonight I wished I had somebody to talk to.

That's true.

I wanted conversation.

Connection.

Somebody present.

Also true:

I did not need to call anybody.

Those are different things.

I sent messages.

Martin got one.

The Serbian girl got them.

Ethan got one.

Nikolina got whatever the fuck Tinder became.

Nobody received the 1 AM drunk Uncle Ben telephone experience.

Congratulations, humanity.

You have been spared.

Instead I sat here.

First gin and tonic.

Then there was no more gin.

So:

Vodka.

Sprite.

Yogurt.

Peanuts.

Music.

The gargoyle.

And increasingly deranged philosophy.

Meanwhile, at the Discount Store

Somewhere else in the universe, Discount Store Marcus Aurelius is finishing his shift.

Bubbles has stolen the carts.

Ricky has destroyed aisle four.

Julian is standing somewhere holding the same rum and Coke he has apparently possessed since the beginning of time.

Marcus would strongly prefer all of this were different.

Unfortunately:

Humans are humans.

Bubbles is Bubbles.

Ricky is Ricky.

Julian's drink is apparently protected by forces beyond Roman philosophy.

Marcus has one job left.

Cleanup on aisle four.

“Fuck.”

He grabs the mop.

The Final State of the System

So this is the final state of tonight's system.

Gin:

Depleted.

Vodka:

Active.

Sprite:

Active.

Yogurt:

Present in unreasonable quantity.

Peanuts:

Available.

Music:

Playing.

Gargoyle:

Sleeping under blanket.

Martin:

Huh?

Serbian girl:

What the fuck?

Ethan:

Has received sincere emotional data.

Nikolina:

Has been advised to bring herself.

Uncle Ben:

Ridiculous. But not really sorry.

Marcus Aurelius:

Still pushing the fucking cart.

Humanity:

Operating within expected parameters.

Nothing has been resolved.

Nothing particularly needs resolving.

I didn't know when I poured the first gin and tonic at five that by one in the morning Marcus Aurelius would be working at a discount store while Bubbles stole his carts and Julian maintained custody of an indestructible rum and Coke.

I didn't know I'd be talking about Paul and Seneca.

I didn't know I'd tell somebody on Tinder to just bring herself.

I didn't know I'd end up thanking two people for meeting me exactly where I am.

I didn't know any of this shit was coming.

And yet:

Vodka Sprite.

Yogurt.

Peanuts.

Music.

Gargoyle.

Humanity doing humanity.

One fucked shopping-cart wheel somewhere in the distance.

Clack.

I look around.

There is absolutely no reasonable explanation for how we got here.

There doesn't need to be.

Here we fucking are.

Clack.