STEVEN EHRET, BARTS NEW PET - MONSTER_STEVE I’m always getting breadcrumbed. (As you can see, I am also learning new lingo.) (And yes, I know that the term “breadcrumbing” has been around for probably a decade at this point, so please don’t point that out. Anything that happened after ‘03 is still new to me.) (And if you think that’s pathetic, feel free to talk shit about me on the newest social media platform; I definitely won’t see it.) So yeah, my latest “match,” who has agreed to go out with me in theory, has been a little slow in getting back to me. I’m certain one of the youths would tell me I’m being “slow faded” and advise me to give up hope on this particular match at this juncture, but I’m still checking my phone a few times a day just to make sure. Talk about being nerdy and desperate! (I swear, I used to be cool.) DO YOU EVER CALL IN SICK WHEN YOU FEEL FINE, BUT REALLY JUST NEED A DAY OFF, AND THE NEXT DAY WHEN YOU GO BACK TO WORK, YOU HAVE TO PRETEND LIKE YOU’RE STILL A LITTLE SICK? I hate that I have to do this, but I am definitely not above it. Sometimes you just need a day off so you can catch up on life, relax, or work on your thousand-yard stare. And when you go back to work the next day, you have to cough a little, maybe look a bit pained when you exert yourself, and say things like, “You don’t want to get what I had. Whoo boy!” Then by the time noon rolls by, you can give up your act and pretend the pills you didn’t actually take finally kicked in. Sure it’s pageantry, but since my boss and fellow coworkers expect it, I’m willing to trade a bit of shitty acting for a work-free day to myself. IS IT WEIRD TO YOU THAT THE PHRASE “CALLING IN SICK” AND “CALLING OUT SICK” MEAN THE SAME THING? Because it’s a bit weird to me. Think about it … DO YOU EVER DO THAT THING WHERE YOUR BRAIN CONSTRUCTS A TRAGEDY AROUND AN ABSENCE OF INFORMATION, AND THEN REALITY TURNS OUT TO BE MUCH MORE BORING THAN ANYTHING YOU COULD HAVE IMAGINED? The other day, I thought I left my dog in the backyard when I left for work. I totally freaked out and began imagining increasingly unlikely and unnecessarily violent catastrophes beset upon my innocent and loving dog due to my inexcusable negligence. These terrible scenarios included him running out of water and dying, getting stung by swarms of wasps, digging a hole under the fence and escaping forever, getting abducted by a murder of crows working as a unit to carry him away to their lair where they would feast on him for days, and/or spontaneously combusting under the exposure of the hot Denver sun — among other horrible circumstances. I tried texting my roommate, but he wasn’t getting back to me. I thought about contacting other people I know who work from home to go and let him back inside. Then I told my boss I had to go back to my house to check on my dog, who was most assuredly dead because of me. Right before I was about to leave, my roommate texted back, “He’s been inside the whole day, sleeping on the couch. I think he got up for water once, but other than that, he’s just hangin’.” I read that and relaxed. I guess I didn’t remember him coming back in before I left. But I was definitely glad none of my gruesomely concocted conclusions mirrored reality in any way. And while I am sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere, my anxiety, general sense of dread, and overactive imagination will sure as hell never let me learn it. UPDATE: IT HAS NOW BEEN 48 HOURS SINCE MY MATCH RESPONDED. THAT’S PROBABLY REALLY, REALLY NOT GOOD, RIGHT? I mean, I know the answer. I haven’t checked the app in a while, but I get the feeling Schrödinger’s cat is so dead, it’s beginning to fossilize. Sometimes having hope is the absolute worst. Just when you think that you’re finally at a place where you have accepted your current station in life, you realize there’s still a glimmer of optimism somewhere deep down in your soul that is excited about the prospect of meeting a new romantic partner. I wish I could consciously kill this insidious shred of hope, because being single really isn’t bad. I’m in charge of my own decisions, and I get to leave town for six weeks with my band and not have to miss anyone (but my dog, of course). I just don’t know how to suppress the deep-down yearning that demands romantic connection. Maybe I should get another dog. (Oh shit, this is how people end up with multiple pets, isn’t it? I’m not sure if I want to become one of those guys just yet.) (Okay, how about this? I’ll give it five years. And if I don’t find anyone by then, I’m going to the animal shelter, and I’m coming home with as many dogs as they’ll let me have.)
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