Pity Party Wendie at work

Pity Party

Wendie at work has an apt name for wallowing in the depths of self-despair: The Pity Party.

I’m having a rousing good one at the moment, and you’re all invited.

I find myself becoming increasingly isolated, and I don’t like it one bit. There are a lot of reasons for it. Friends are drifting away. I understand that, as I’ve sometimes been the one to drift myself. Right now it feels like they’re all drifting at once–though I realize that’s just a matter of perception.

I think most people lean on their family at times like this. I’m sure I used to. Nowadays my family is either dead or estranged; homogenizing my year into one long drone devoid of the punctuation of tradition. Egad. Cue violins.

As I get older and create the person I’ve always wanted to be, I find that person is a tad unusual. It becomes difficult to relate to the general populace. Small talk is maddening, politics are dangerous. So instead of getting out and meeting new people only to face the disappointment of unrelatability, I stay the hell home. Not good.

Humans weren’t meant to live like this. We’re tribal, social creatures. We’re meant to rub elbows, talk trash, make love. We’re not made to sit in a tiny apartment and type through the hot summer days. I’d get out, but the sea of strange faces outside my door only reminds me that I know none of them. I run back home.

That said, I know I’ll snap out of this. Probably in about ten minutes. I do that.

Thanks for coming. Don’t worry about the mess, I’ll get it in the morning.

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