Feeding the Troll

Nov 11, 2015 by

The below is a response to the email I received, then posted as “The Great Pretender“.  Click the link to see the email. – Alan

 

I thought long and hard about this; whether to reply. Whether to “Feed the troll”, so to speak. I was advised otherwise, but I guess I’m not good at taking advice.

I should be upset reading your letter.  I should be angry.  My therapist has made it abundantly clear these are perfectly appropriate emotions, and you give me plenty of reason. All that detail, you seem to know so much…

So yeah, I’m pissed, you know?  Seriously, I’m totally fucking pissed.

I sit here on my deck, the sun setting slowly over the trees, the ice softly melting into my deep glass of bourbon. I know you’re out there, and I’m thinking I should worry…I mean, that’s what you’re telling me right?  So that’s what I’m doing, sitting here drinking my bourbon, and worrying. Specifically about you.

My mother’s coming over, she’s bringing potato salad. I wonder if in your travels, your adventures, you’re little escapades, you’ve come across her potato salad.  It’s a fucking spectacle, something to behold.  If you haven’t tried some, I’m suggesting you do.

I’m looking forward to seeing her. We’re close, you know?  I talk to her a lot, we’ve certainly gone through our rough spells, but I’ve always known she was on my side.  You know?  Though I guess when you compare, what we had was nothing like you and yours.

But all the same, it’s nice when she stops by.

So I sit here taking advantage of the moment, the silence.  I like the time it takes to lift the glass to my lips, to feel the cold stiff burn.  I like this, the time I get to just be me.

This doesn’t make any sense, does it?  I’m sorry, I’m easily lost in my own reverie… I say all of this as if it’s the only thing, as if you could understand.  I’m sorry, I’ve been told I’m selfish, and its moments like this that make it all too clear to me.

This is special, sitting here alone on my deck drinking bourbon, alone with my thoughts and no one else. It’s special because it’s unusual.  Finally, I’m alone. No chattering from the kid or the wife, no one interrupting the quiet, no one stopping me from watching TV or taking a shit.  Finally I get to be alone, just me, with a drink and no one else.  You see what I’m saying?

It’s special because I know it won’t last long.  Before I know it, my wife will come home.  All lavender and vanilla, warm hugs and understanding. She’ll tell me everything isn’t as bad as I think it is, she’ll take something of my burden and put it right on her back.  She’ll love me the whole fucking time she’s doing it and I won’t understand even a minute of it – but I’ll love her even more for it.

So as you can see, it’s moments like these, where I get to fucking relax and be on my own.  I’m sure you can identify with it right? It’s weird, but when you’re constantly surrounded by people who love you, it’s nice to have a little time  to yourself.  So I’m enjoying it while I can.

I know every inch of this place. Every blade of grass, weed, tree, bush and animal.  I know every shadow in every frame of light.  I know this like I know the beating of my own heart.  No matter the struggle, the obstacle, the fucking pain in the ass, I will be happy sitting right here.

And honestly, this is what surprises me.  With as much as you had to say, as long as you rambled, you never mentioned seeing me sitting here on my deck drinking my whiskey without a care in the world.  Maybe I don’t quite understand the intimidation game, but it would seem like you’d want to at least acknowledge it, to show how much you know about me, to show me alone and exposed… or something, like I said, I might not be good at this whole intimidation thing.

But still… I can’t seem to let it go.  All that detail, all that information you felt like you had to share, why would you leave out something  so clearly important to me? It’s not like you haven’t seen me.  I know you have.  Like I said, I know this like I know the beating of my own heart.  I’ve learned to look between the trees, in the shadows of the barn – I see you when you’re seeing me.

You made a point to talk about my wife and my son, but you never said a word about that day I sat in my truck, drinking whiskey, looking over my land, when our eyes met.

I watched you watch me, and I know you know it. That’s significant, don’t you think? How is it that you managed to talk about my wife, my son, my fucking, my empty bed, but not that one moment when you know I saw you. It’s kinda funny really. If I were smarter, I might make something of that.

I wonder if you thought you’d scare me, if you thought I’d move, or hide the family.  I’ve read that people like you – if we can really include you as people – identify with their victims for a time. You obsess over perceived similarities, holding the object of your desire to a standard they can never keep.  You eventually find yourself wronged and hurt by their seeming transgressions, so you lash out and destroy any remaining reminder of what you can never be.

So of course, if you see yourself in me, you’d assume I’d pull some chickenshit move like running away. That’s what you’d do, isn’t it?  You probably don’t think of yourself as a pussy, hiding in the woods, under the bed, behind the shed.  You might not think it, but deep inside you know it. Don’t you?  You know what an impotent little piece of shit you are, wishing desperately you could jerk off to my life – if only you were the kind of loser who hid in bushes jerking off, but you’re not.  Those guys can actually find their dicks when they need them.  You just hide in the bushes wishing you could get it up.

When was the last time you saw your dick? When your mommy was washing you? Such a pathetic fuck.

It’s no wonder Frankie left you.  How could anyone stay with you?

So here’s what’s up.  I’m going to finish this glass of bourbon, and maybe have another.  I’m going to watch the sun settle beyond the trees before going to enjoy the rest of my evening with my family. I’ll send you this email before I settle in, and then I won’t think about you again.  Just like that you’re gone.

If you were ever even here.

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