People aren't out to "get" me...They're out to make me happy!
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the puppies of peace;
That this nice deed shall smell above of flowers
With sweet people, moaning for Bor.
I told you kids not to let me near the Shakespeare. Then again, at least he doesn't ever have his "chorus" start actually singing during Julius Caesar. Do you know how unpopular Shakespeare would have become if a group of thespians in his plays started singing "Who Let the Dogs Out"?
But I digress. People have been replying to my last post - people not actually following my blog - via comment or e-mail. "We love you, Bor. We Miss you, Bor. We got you a boar, Bor." Okay, I haven't actually been offered a boar, but the messages of friendship have been rolling in.
One even tried to use the big guns. "Think of D-D!" Do you honestly think I'd forget my "little buddy?" (And, really...Why has no one started calling me "Skipper"? Do I have to call him "Gilligan" before people pick up on the "little buddy" reference?) D-D is one of the reasons I'm still alive. I still suffer bouts of deep depression, and I stare at all the medications I have to take daily in order to function. The temptation to devour a "chemical cocktail of doom," (patent pending), is strong. Then I think about the folks of GitP, especially D-D, and it occurs to me that his mind would explode if he learned I shuffled loose this mortal coil. I can't remember what he looks like, as I think I've only sen one picture of him. But in my imagination, I see a generic teenager in the Netherlands bursting into tears, and finding to his dismay that he can't stop crying! D-D...He's the little brother I'd like to have, as opposed to the ones I actually have.
Fearing friends running for the hills was just ONE of the reasons I wandered away from the Playground. I told one friend the other reasons, and it seems unfair that I not explain to others so they can see the whole thing.
First, there was what seemed to be "Creepy Bor Syndrome." This involved me seeing an attractive female of any age, though usually under 18, and making some kind of semi-perverted joke. Following what was meant to be a joke would be an influx of people stating how creepy my joke was. Ummm...Yeah. Because, as the secret millionaire that I am, I have the capacity to travel the world at a moment's notice to stalk an underaged girl, and perhaps charm her into doing a variety of illegal things. Lacking tone inflection online, I suppose people couldn't tell if I was joking. In return, I couldn't tell if they were joking, though I suspect they weren't. And even if I wasn't joking, some of those girls are beautiful! So what if I entertained a deviant thought? It's not like I was approaching them with indecent proposals. If anything, each girl I saw that was underaged and attractive usually got a PM from me: "Be careful in your online communications." But I was "Creepy Bor," and those remarks kinda hurt. (I would even occasionally take down posts due to the negative responses my comments would get.)
Oh, but then there was the taboo romance that was starting to develop in my head. One particular lady-Playgrounder was getting stuck in my brain, to the point where I was starting to have dreams about her. When I last read something posted by her, she was 17. She may have had a birthday since then, but I don't know. The thing is, I was actually starting to fall in love with her, with no effort on her or my part. She's more than half my age, fit, intelligent, and awesome. Me? I'm old, decrepit, occasionally intelligent, and...Well, rumor has it that I'm awesome, despite my not feeling awesome. I could sense the symptoms of "foot-in-mouth disease" coming on. Rather than do that, or risk the heartbreak I was setting myself up for, I added her to the list of reasons why I needed some time away.
While we're visiting the topic of heartbreak, the was The Depression Thread. People were posting, hoping that the wise and powerful Bor would reply with advice that was, as they say, "full of win." As my foot issues increased, I found myself reading the problems of others and thinking, "I don't know what to do for you. My problems are getting worse, and I'm falling into a thought cycle of 'me, me, me.' I want to help, but I need help too. Until I can get my brain back on track, I feel rather useless."
Here, then, is the topic of my issues. Folks, I'm poor. I live in a poor neighborhood, filled to the brim with other poor people, many of whom don't have two brain cells to rub together. Their answer to an argument is to throw a punch or pull a gun. This may be genuine paranoia or a genuine concern, but I worry when I leave my apartment for an extended period, because I expect to come home to find shattered windows and my computer gone, along with my television, DVD player, and perhaps even Nike! And on my income, anywhere I go is going to be just like this. I want to move, but can't afford to do so, and once I move to a better neighborhood, I would need an additional income of approximately $300 per month to live there.
As it is, I sit here on a monthly basis and plead with the known universe to help me. You'll notice that this month is lacking in terms of begging. That's because I was the lucky recipient of stimulus money. Like it's a big deal. All it means is that I can feed myself for ONE FREAKIN' MONTH without holding my hand out for help. As it is, after running the numbers, I have no "extra" money. Because of this, a pair of friends are sending me what I will call "presents," and will be posting about it when it arrives.
My reluctance to return to GitP stems from a fear of getting hurt. I consider the people at GitP some of the very best the planet has to offer, and I'm afraid of them becoming sick of my perpetual whining and turning away from me. It's happened too often to me, and I honestly can't handle more heartache. Thus, it remains an internal debate for now.
But before I go...Thank you, my dear friends. I know you care about me. You should know that I care about you. It's why I am always telling people, like now, to BE WELL!