So many beautiful ladies. Too many. In every store, walking up every block I drag myself along. And driving in my truck, axel squeaking, I try to make eyes but they are focused, up ahead, at something or the other. Or she might look my way but that fucking axel is squealing like a baby choking on a chicken bone so she quickly averts her eyes.
“You blame your squeaking axel for women not noticing you?”
“Did you ever consider they just didn’t notice you? Or, perhaps, there’s something else going on inside their head that they didn’t notice another face in a vast parade of faces in fast moving motor vehicles?”
You’re not helping.
Look at this face! How can anyone miss this?
“Look, the women in this city are notoriously callous.”
Callous? I’d say snobby.
“Well, yeah, that too. They don’t seem to notice anybody. My girlfriend rarely looks me in the eye. I think it’s the nature of all people in Vancouver. Don’t take it personally. The people here are a bit more….secluded than the average Joe.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Joe….”
What kind of therapist are you, anyway?
“I’m not your therapist. I’m your friend.”
But you are a therapist. Do you talk to them like this?
“You pansy. I’m talking to you like this because you’re my friend. And I’m not depending on your money.”
“It’s a joke. Look, I’ve known you for – what – 24 years? 24 years. Shit…but yeah. 24 years, Joe. We know each other pretty well and I can tell when you need a good kick in the ass. Now, you need a good kick in the ass. You’re just sitting down on it, getting nowhere and bent out of shape because you’re not doing anything. And you’re thinking about how you’re not getting anywhere instead of thinking about how to get somewhere. I can’t tell you what to do, only you can.”
“And you better fucking get on it because you’re depressing the rest of us.”