UnDear Black Holes

Every day is the worst day of your life, and I'm tired of hearing about it.

I remember discussing a mutual friend with JBob, and him saying "That person is like a black hole of negative energy. Every conversation sucks you into his despair."

And I remember thinking That's exactly right. Neither one of us knows a damn thing about how black holes work, but I get what you were trying to say. And I started consciously avoiding Mr. Black Hole.

That was over a decade ago. I perform poetry a couple of times a week. I work in a comic book store. I date men. I am surrounded by black holes.

The problem with trying to smack a black hole upside its head is that it sucks your fist in, and then the rest of you. Also, black holes don't have heads. They're really a problematic metaphoric device.

The thing is, back before I had confidence and trustworthy friends, I was a good listener. It was my only definable personality trait. So negative people flocked to me. Everyone had a love crisis or a family trauma, and, sure, I wouldn't be able to help solve anybody's problems, but I probably wasn't going to run away from their boring ass drama with my fingers in my ears, either.

I am still a good listener. I do still care most of the time. I'm sorry your Betta has fin rot, or the girl you met bagging groceries with the snaggle tooth and the bum leg won't return your calls. It's a damn shame your father doesn't understand you. He didn't understand you yesterday. The likelihood of him understanding you tomorrow is slim. I know this. My father doesn't understand me, either, but do I corner you in a basement bar and complain about it every week while you're trying to mack on someone hot? No. It's not your problem.

I'm tired of having personal epiphanies at your expense. Particularly when those epiphanies are I should be more selective about who I'm friends with.

And now this whole entry is negative, so let me tell you black holes (and you non-black holes who are reading this entry) a story:

Last week I was counting comic books in a different store than I'm used to (I work for a chain). A coworker who I'd never met before, but who's good friends with two of my new roommates, and I were exchanging good-natured jokes that violate every page of the sexual harassment guidelines they gave me when I was hired.

At around four in the afternoon, two obviously art students walked into the store.

"I'm an art student" the taller of the obviously art students said "looking for a graphic novel or collection that has many different artists in it. See I've got this class where our homework is to talk about our influences, and I really don't know that much about comic artists yet."

So I suggested Flight, DC's Bizzaro collections, and other things most of you don't care about. But the girl I work with is prettier than me, and lo but hot girls who know about comics are nerd black holes, and this particular obvious art student was sucked into her awesometude. My opinion was nothing. And that's when the shorter obvious art student started hitting on me for the next three gay hours. Hitting on me enough that I noticed it, and I am notorious for my cluelessness about people flirting with me.

He may have even asked if we had a line of underwear in our store featuring our employees because he wanted my face on his crotch.

I'm fairly certain that means that he's into me. And has no tact.

Tact is overrated.

We came up with a few comic ideas that may or may not come to fruition on the web. They're dirty comics. Maybe not as dirty as Sexy Losers used to be, but pretty dirty. We made plans to meet this past Wednesday to hang out and make plans to hang out at a time I wasn't at work.

He didn't show up.

The world didn't end.

I did not scowl, pout, mope, cry, kick things or otherwise Eeyore. Shit, I shouldn't even be telling you about the last part because it doesn't fucken matter. On Saturday he wanted my face on his underwear. That trumps him not being around on Wednesday by a lot.

I haven't seen Sorain over a month. I try to only mention it as a punchline. It's not worth mentioning, otherwise, because you're not the one who has to date him. Something, for which, you should all be grateful.

I'll try not to use the shitty day as fertilizer routine. I'll not talk about bows after rain or any other self-help claptrap. I'll only say that, from now on, every time you woe at me, you'd best be prepared to spend at least an equal amount of time entertaining me in such a way that I don't feel like crossing the street every time I see you in public, or sticking my dick in your mouth to shut you up. Because, let's face it, if every day is the worst day of your life, tomorrow is going to be absolutely torturous for you, but I see no reason why it should be torturous for me, as well.