What Dogs Yearn to Shed

Somewhere, etched upon the porcelain Urinal of Life, is the adage "you can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends," which is a phrase that seems neat while you're taking a piss all over it, but not so tenable when it comes time to zip up your pants. By that statement, deceased reader, I do not wish to imply that the importance of friends (and family) be based upon the constraints of ephemera, nor would I dare suggest that you stab your grandmother with the straightened hook of a wire clothes hanger (unless she were wearing a bleached William Shatner mask, in which case propriety be damned).

For starters, I don't think it's entirely accurate to presume that one has the power to choose their friends. There are, most certainly, those individuals* that have the power to do so, but I also think that they are in the minority. The majority of us are selected by others to be friends, and by that I mean we, as sui generis constructs (even if that, in-of-itself, is a lie of convenience), are designated by others as comrades, if only because we share similar, decrepit instincts. It may be just a matter of me and my deflated sense of self-importance, but I'm inclined to believe that there are people that will never like you, and those that will adore you beyond any sense of rational thought (the former being abundant, the latter requiring psychiatric evaluation).

Before you accuse me of being a lunatic (or waxing philosophical), consider that I generally rub the average person entirely the wrong way. It's hard to believe, I know, but there is a segment of the population (disbarring cats, of course) that finds me repulsive, and to them I say "thank you," not because I'm hideous (which I am, unequivocally) but, rather, they dislike my representation of friendship or, by extension, humanity. Laborious extrapolation, I know.

It's not melodrama, misanthropy, or anything in between: it's actuality, staring me, and you, diseased reader, in the face. That I have nothing to amuse you with today bothers me immensely, but then again, you chose me, not the other way around. Bear-baiting at its finest, even though bears make for shitty friends far more disconcerting than any foe.

Next time, next time, next time.



* Paging Denz, or Paul Hogan.