Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

Somethin’s happenin’ here
What it is ain’t exactly clear

You know you mean well. And you know that your friends count on you for that ear, shoulder or other body part to cry, mince and extend their cumulative tales of woe. They do this because you let them. It’s because you’re a good sort. The sort who cares.

But even the best-willed souls have their limit. When do you get the proffered ear, huh? How about your Eeyore moments? Who’s going to take care of you then? No one, unless you hire them to do it.

Mind-Wizards, known to the sane as psychiatrists and psychologists, must engage in ongoing therapy to understand the inevitable impact the guiding and healing of broken souls takes on their own personae. It’s both a perq (not, “perk”, dammit, but “perq,” short for perquisite – look it up: I don’t have the time to be a dictionary now) and an occupational hazard.

Think about it. Are you the one in your crowd who gets the three am drunken phone call about that son-of-a-bitch-who-broke-my-heart-for-the-last-goddamn-time? Or are you doing the dialing? Yeah, it’s you. And, guess what: you’re at your limit.

For once, things are not going so rosy. That life-change that was just around the corner kinda fizzled, or you just let go of it – too damn much work. Putting curtains up isn’t helping and with the new couch, every else, even you, looks a little older and a little shabbier.

Time for a change. No, not time to wait for a change. Time to make the change happen. Think bad things about people. Kick that long-suffering, married, part-time boyfriend of yours to the curb and hit eHarmony already. Take the least likely sporting activity and do it to the hilt – hang-glide, luge, pole-vault, whatever. But most importantly, hang the sign on the doghouse that says, “The Doctor Is O-U-T.”