Of Mules In Love
There is an old Dutch saying that goes something like, “The average donkey (idiot) does not run into the same stone twice.” Sometimes patterns can be recognized at a very early stage and avoided before they manifest, it usually doesn’t take much more than an idiot savant to figure it out.
I happen to be very good at pattern recognition. No, really: I’ve done tests for the VDAB (unemployment agency) along with over a dozen others, and I was the only one done within the time limit (and some change) and with all answers correct. The freakishly fat woman said she had never seen anything like it, and I almost answered that neither had I.
I don’t want to blow my own horn too much, so I should mention that my memory is worse than that of a 80 year old Alzheimer patient. No seriously, I took tests.
If a hippie hugs an unwilling tree, is it sexual harassment? If a donkey is in love with its rock, would it still be a fool to run into it twice? What’s the limit? Or does love render you a fool from the start? So many metaphors, so little point. Is love even a factor to begin with? How many times will love fit in one paragraph before my monitor starts leaking sap?
In less than three months, we get into the same argument and break up, twice in one week. So now what? A third time to boot?
On, off, on, off, and on again. Not really my style, but there you go. I’ve done so much lately “not my style”, it’s become my new thing. It’s the new pink.
Seriously though, I really don’t know what has come over me that I partake in this. Or I do know, but don’t want to. I haven’t come this far through dependence on others, quite the contrary. On the other hand, she claims the same thing. So if neither of us is strong enough to escape this, we might as well be weak together. Two mollusks in a shell.
Aaand I’m sick again. Again, because unlike usual, last time still falls within my memory. Basically, my digestive tract, start to finish, if giving me a not-too-subtle “Fuck you, too”. My diet isn’t doing me much good. I’ve known this longer than today, but it never hurt before so I failed to care.
I eat when I feel like it, and don’t find it particularly enjoyable unless I make it so. You would hate to be my M&M, I will eat you in so many sadistic ways, you’ll wish you were um, something else. Jesus anything but an M&omg not the peanut.
And now I pay the price: A lack of vitamins and sleep made this situation way overdue. I don’t let it stop me doing what I want to, but it’s no joke waking up with this kind of throat. I can feel that I’m somewhat feverish, too, which makes tonight’s walk home in the rain seem like a somewhat dumb idea.
My girlfriend gave me a funny look when I told her, and asked with a straight face, “You didn’t catch the swine flu, did you?” I nearly choked on my noodles laughing. But she was, in fact, dead serious. A colleague of her housefather’s (she works as an au pair) actually managed to catch it, and the whole family will now have to do a check-up with the doctor as they have all come into direct contact with him. And of course she and I, disgusting spit and god-knows-what-other bodily fluid swapping humans that we are, are irreversibly connected in that fate. If she’s got it, I have it.
I can’t believe I may actually become part of the statistics I’ve become so annoyed with hearing. I expected to come into contact with it some time or other, but this is a little sudden and close to my taste. What are the odds for survival, anyway?
I know the symptoms though, and though mine match, I’m a few essential ones short. No dizziness, couching or any of that. I’m on the goddamn lookout for them though, I don’t intend to spend the next couple days forced to spend in bed. I have a life to waste, damnit! I don’t think they’re legally permitted to keep me there against my will, however, so I can walk out whenever I choose and do my thing.
No virus is a match for this piggy.