And the Self-Caged Bird Yet Lives...

I hate people...

Perhaps I should clarify: I can't think of anyone I hate on a personal level; it's more of a general hatred of people's ineptitude to communicate, grow, or even challenge themselves to something greater than a new flavor of coffee at Wawa.

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Some background for this post, I suppose, is in order.

I have had a headache for three days now. Three days, a literal pain in my head, throbbing, banging, aching, and in all seriousness, metaphorically the size of Jupiter. It is kept company by a minor ear ache, a post-nasal drip, and an over-arching demand to once again step into the role of peace maker, or "Healer" if one is to ironically use the true meaning of my Greek name. (Even more irony? We're not Greek...)

Thus, it was with trepidation that I even answered my phone.

Actually, wait: The first moment of trepidation of phone answering came on Saturday, before the Headache from Hell arrived. It seems someone heard about someone else's little email vent, took it personally, and decided that it needed to be discussed. With me.

It was brought on by another person who, reading this tiny, small hiccup of a vent, thought deeper issues needed resolved and contacted this person who in turn contacted me--you know, to talk.

Talking, it should be pointed out, is OVER-rated. Especially when it's on a phone.

But I got through it, helped this person get through it, and hopefully that small branch of humanity has moved toward a semblance of healing and civility. After all, expecting everyone to be buddy-buddy and all hugs, kisses, and puppy dog licks is stupid. Period. But this small hiccup of trouble should have been a clue of greater troubles to come.

Then the head ache arrived, with it's buddies Ear Ache and Nasal Drip, on Sunday. Popped some acetaminophen, rested, yadda yadda--whatever. It was only roughly the size of a small, white moon.

The next call came on Monday at lunch: Someone's in a world of hurt. Fine, whatever--talked new person through their little crisis, and moved on--actually, moved on home, as the headache had increased exponentially to include Mars and the asteroid belt.

Then Rich comes home, thinks the world has caved in as I made it home before him, and after a half-hour of crisis mode, he realized that silence was a prerequisite for keeping his life in its current, unharmed form. I was in bed by 10:00 pm (yes, very very early for me).

By Tuesday at 4:00 am, Jupiter was squatting between my ears. Still, work beckoned, as if I didn't do it today, that would mean all the more for me to do tomorrow, 'cause God forbid someone actually help someone else in the dog-eat-dog world of green thing making. Perish the thought!

Another call 10 minutes before lunch--it seems that, while yesterday's little crisis had had the decency to pretend to be solved, it hadn't--it was just a giant waiting to awake and spread misery in the same way that butterfly collars did the seventies--horribly, and with little regard for others' eyeballs.

A certain someone is apparently under the false impression that the world revolves around him, that certain someone's parents should live just to help with his every whim and thought, and that anything less is a show of NON-love. Never mind that he's thirty (okay, twenty-nine); never mind that the only thing he thinks his parents ever did for him was bail him out of jail (conveniently forgetting the overall MASSIVE amounts of monetary, emotional, and physical help they've showered on the stupid child), which, he's quick to point out, maternal parent didn't even want paternal parent to do (trust me--for VERY good reasons); never mind that he's burned his family SO many times it would be like trying to count the number of side burns present at Woodstock--to quote him in one of the many MANY phone calls this afternoon, "his feelings are hurt."

Boo-Fucking-Hoo.

Grow a set, buddy.

The truly sad part of this latest installment of The Bold and the Tragically Stupid is that his parents were waiting there with open arms (albeit with spring-loaded hinges, just in case), and all they wanted was one night to talk to him, in person, about his proposal.

From his reaction, you would think a precondition was that he contract the AIDS virus.

Not that his parents are completely blame-free, but at least they have history, facts, and logic on their side--not that that's an end-all be-all, as, if I were in their shoes, this person would be railing against me right now (Oh, the memories THAT thought brings to mind...; let's just say it involves at least two permanent scars on my body, and a bald spot, at the very least, on his...) as I would be reacting in EXACTLY the same way as said parents--with fear, worry, and a very cautious willingness to help...

One of the last things he said before the very abrupt disconnection (that we'll just blame Cingular for) was that, and again, I quote, "as [his parents] sit their in their Tower of Judgment" (and yes, I'm pretty sure the capital letters were there), he would "once again do it on his own" because "he always has to" and "other people's parents are better than they are" (oh, that greener grass--I wish someone would tell him its all astro-turf) and "They're all talk and no action!"

I'm certainly glad at this point that video phones aren't the norm or he would have hung up a long time ago as my face contorted in an effort not to let my rage be conveyed wirelessly to his cavernously empty skull. It just boggles my mind how (and here we'll blame the drugs, just for shits and giggles) how much he forgets about how EVERYONE (probably with the notable exception of evil Grandmom) has spent more time, effort, money, emotion, sleepless nights, drunken stupors, and sobering mornings on him than the entire Chinese population! The night I spent listening to him rail against the injustices of my older brother (while quite drunk) while I worked on my older brothers' magazine (as the drunk one leaned dangerously out the barn door on the second story of the Madison Street Rear apartment) through the night ALONE is priceless! (Seconded only by the night I had to listen to his drunken observations about the Lady of Shalott print that has hung in every living room I have ever inhabited.)

Now, this kid can be a great guy--he has a big heart (though very little follow-through) who lives very much in the present (also known to others as the "you'll regret that in the future" moment), all of which to say is he has no regard for delayed gratification, let alone doing something lacking any type of gratification for himself, never mind how it may affect others. He lives in the Land of Me, population: 1. He has his rare moments, granted, when he'll entertain a passer-by (usually as long as said passer-by brings a gift, physical or otherwise)... But the key word there was RARE.

I hate stupid people. I hate stupid people who think the world revolves around them. I hate that they think it's always OTHER people who have caged him in; it's always OTHER people who have held him back; it's always OTHER people that have not been there for him. And, trust me, it doesn't help to hand him a mirror--we've tried.

You'd think in such a small, shallow world, it wouldn't be hard to climb out of that mud puddle that he created with his own piss...

Am I being hard on this person? Maybe. Should I show more compassion? I usually do. But this is were I vent, and there it is. Tomorrow, my heart will have melted a bit, the last vestiges of this headache should be gone (thanks to the miracle of science), and this speed bump that right now a HUGE drama will be in the past--sadly, on the part of one human being, nothing will have been learned, though not for lack of effort on the rest of our parts.

Ah, dear reader, what's a person to do?