Alright, alright, I’ll go out on the porch, but come with me. I’m calm now. Just one more second… I’m done. I’m fine. Sorry for the scene.
Well look now, obviously it’s not the best way to go about feeling this, this drama brouhaha with the tears and the wists and the sighs of the forlorn.
And the yelling, yeah. And the—I know, but you’ve got to give me some credit. I’m quite well now, and we don’t know what I’ve got lurking under my skin, intertwined with my guts and bones—who knows what disorder or disease came into this world with me!
I could have a very, very severe anxious condition—my genetic sequences got mixed up, one of my parents had defective pea pod aliases. Alleles. Maybe I’ve got the very worst anxious condition and I should be commended for getting myself under control.
If we see a crippled child, wouldn’t we be amazed if he rose out of his chair one day and got his legs to walk? We wouldn’t say, “Well sure, that’s what legs are for, what’s the big idea,” right? Because he was crippled? What I’m saying is, consider if I’ve got this anxious condition. It would be a miracle I’ve gotten myself so calm. If a non-crippled walks, no one cares, but if that cripple takes off, !
What I’m saying is, consider I’m not emotionally non-crippled.
So yes, of course I overreacted, but from the prospective of my alleles, I may have acted quite right. Nevertheless, I so regret the last few minutes, before I calmed down. I so regret you were called an awful, vagrant-y, mean skinny man with bad jeans (called so by me). And I’m sorry you’ve been covered in beer and pants-ed (covered in beer and pants-ed, you know, by me).
I didn’t know my text hadn’t gone through! I though you were ignoring me, and ignoring someone of my anxious condition is as good as pouring gasoline on a match. A lit match.
Imagine it from my prospective—you say to a friend, “what are you doing tonight?” and they don’t respond, so you figure, okay, they’re at work, or their phone’s off. Some people might interpret a non-response to mean you aren’t interested in me, but I think those people are too quick to judge. Being quick to judge is the worst quality a person can have, don’t you think? Like you wouldn’t assume I was crazy, just because I yelled at you and pants-ed you and covered you with beer? Anyway, I didn’t mind at all that you didn’t respond. I didn’t take it personally at all, even though I was tempted to read into it and think you weren’t into me, because I am never quick to judge.
No, I wasn’t quick to judge you just now, when I threw that fit that I may not be responsible for due to pre-existing genetic conditions. That fit was a long time coming. I texted you at 4:50! That’s five hours you could’ve responded, and you didn’t. And then I see you here, drinking a beer, talking to that girl in the blue tank top. She’s like, really pretty.
I am not starting another scene. I’m just saying, I got upset because I thought you were ignoring me, and then I got very upset because I have this genetic thing probably.
It’s perfectly fine for you to ignore me, though, now that I think about it. You got my text, didn’t you? It’s okay; just tell me so I know. Come on! This is so funny.
You did get it. Right. And you didn’t respond because you didn’t want to respond, simple as that! Your prerogative! I just thought, since we’d been seeing each other—nevermind—it’s your prerogative—I sucked your dick, though—whatever, so neither of us is mad at each other—I sucked your dick LAST WEEK how are you allowed to—whatever, so, super. Super.
Yes, it does appear another fit is coming on, doesn’t it? Oh, if only I could help it.
