Nobody Pays Attention to Me

Of course, I didn't need Brooke Weber to point this out for me, but her effort is appreciated nonetheless because sometimes we all need a good reminding of what's really important in this life. And, in my case, what is not.

Regarding the phone number situation, I find it somewhat amusing that in order to find out what my phone number is--the phone number I so foolhardily sent to everyone in my e-mail address book--said Ms. Weber sent me an e-mail. Nevertheless, her efforts were rewarded with information that she is now too lazy to go and look for, and for that laziness I applaud her. That is some quality apathy right there.

But in the interests of future romantic-comedy-fart parties, I will give you all my phone number on dis here blog, though as the title suggests I don't really think much will come of it, but at least it'll be a pleasant diversion for a few minutes as I while away the hours in my Temple of Sad.

Four people, if my count is accurate, actually read that fabled e-mail and updated their talky devices accordingly. Two of them may have been imaginary, yes, but that is of little consequence; in fact, that figments of my own imagination are more devoted to keeping in contact with me than my erstwhile corndog/crabclaw fellows speaks volumes. Five years ago it was all so different; my elegant soirees and formal balls were the talk of the town. Especially my balls. Oh, how they used to talk about my balls!

Two things spring to mind upon reflection on my balls; that there was never a dull evening, and that everyone in attendance had their face plastered with a gleaming joy. Three nights a week, sometimes; my balls were so popular I had trouble keeping up with the demand. Two nights a week would've been much more manageable, but I am nothing if not a slave to peer pressure.

Zero now is the number that most accurately represents my station in life; some might say that I, like that rounded digit, am not really a number at all, but an abstract concept that, unlike it, is absolutely inessential. Five years is a long time, and the barren halls of my sprawling exurban manse testify to the loneliness that has descended upon me. Four Horsemen of Despair are riding toward my moat-protected gate; Alyosha, Zarathustra, Bernardo Bertolucci and Steve. Three of them would be more than enough to drag me howling into the depths of Hell, but Steve has a tendency to tag along when he's not really wanted, though he makes up for that by usually carrying some weed.

So there you go, assholes. I already regret it, in many ways, but I, unlike certain numbers of us, refuse to delete my shame. I'll be expecting abusive, liquor-fueled text messages from the lot of you, though on that account, as so many others, I am prepared for disappointment.