What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Friday, April 15, 2011

State of the Independent


      Fellow single people, I am making this speech on your behalf to help shoo away those annoying friends and family members who are paired up and convinced you have a serious affliction because you dine alone. Fear not. Most of these blissful boobs will be joining us soon enough. Oh, how I enjoy the arrival as I welcome them with open arms and a sliver of encouragement—”Grab a glass. It ain’t so bad. You’ll see.”
      Far too often, human bed warmers create stress through obligation. Adopting one can cause hives—itchy, scratchy, blotchy, ew-y hives. They’re not for everyone and certainly not for a person who recently fought to return her dog to the pound. Suddenly this liberated woman finds a better night’s sleep in pajamas instead of itchy lace. She sighs with delight as she has only one person to persuade to fall asleep with a romance novel instead of Sports Center.
      I sound jaded, don’t I? My ex-wife is a saint, so don’t blame her. The longer I am single, the less lonely and more accustomed I become. Is that odd? You’ve felt the same angst when you considered adopting a pet, sex without condoms, refinancing, or checking monster.com from a work computer. There’s a moment of hesitation as the little voice (logic) in the depths of your skull whispers, “Are you sure?”
      Love, romance, affection, tables for two—all lovely. Ah, but at what price?
      Single people as well as people with grown offspring have a similar reaction to children. I love kids. They’re fun, fun, fun and when the whining starts, “Here’s junior.” You hand the little pest back to his rightful owner, collect your security deposit, and smile as you recall a thoroughly enjoyable experience with a tiny human, sans the tears, poop, and cottage cheese puke.
      That’s why I occasionally look to rent-a-date. The company of a woman is usually fun, except for the interview process, which can be tedious. I poke, prod, and massage an ego with the hopes of finding a fit. If my square peg doesn’t fit her round hole, “Off with you.” There are plenty more holes to be found by this asshole.
      Life with minimal obligations is blissful. We should all strive to extricate that which causes strife and a shortened life. When you adopt a lover, you take on a responsibility. It may not be as gross as scooping steaming dog shit with an inverted baggie, but it could still stink. Suddenly you are obligated to make a certain number of touches in every 24-hour period. If you forget, your plant wilts and requires more than the usual attention to revive.
      The next time a paired-up braggart suggests there’s something amiss with your love life, tell that person to kindly fuck off. You are unattended as intended.

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