The beauty about texting is the invisibility cloak that shields my absolute absence of ardor.
Thank god. I’m trying to be nice, but when I’m sleepy, hurting or annoyed in general – my inner werewolf (don’t be fooled by that term, “inner”, as you needn’t dig far to find him) surfaces like some acrid gaseous emission from the depths of a bath. At such times as these, the mere concept of kindness seems so abstract that trying to dredge it out from my bowels is akin to an absurd carnival act involving grumpy unfed lions.
So, I try my hardest to do the opposite of what I feel – inject some redeeming quality where I’d really rather infect it with my special strain of psychological rabies. Even if it’s acting – acting like I’m amused rather than really annoyed for no reason…
You know, I’ll never understand that question.
Seriously… you could ask anything else:
Are you heading to bed?
Are you already in bed?
Are you just ignoring my text along with the collection of other disregarded messages from five other people?
Any question would be better.
Any that won’t interrogate a consciousness operating at a level barring its capacity to reply.
Ah, yes. That’s it. Poor dear clearly never received my mass-released memo. Not her fault. Totally glad now I restrained my aimless fury in favor of feigning gaiety.
Blame our overlord handheld robots, I say.
They can’t be trusted.