There are men who are the life of every party they frequent and sometimes I wish I was one of them and not the me that I am. Sometimes. I see them laughing, one arm hooked behind a girl’s waist, one hand holding an appletini, the other arm greeting other men, the other hand patting other women. Octupuslike.

I see them, clean shaven, crisply dressed, smiles as wide as the interstate, and I sometimes wish I was them and not me. Regular old me with a six inch beard, a grungy look about myself, clothes worn in and at places torn (out of neglectful squalor, not a poverty-stricken one), and a general lack of social and hygienic customs . Regular old me with a beer in his hands and a cigarette between his lips, and those cigarettes earn me looks of disdain (“cancer, heard of it?”), and the beer earns me looks of contempt (“there are other liquors than these”). Regular old me who can’t talk up to pretty girls and smile at their ill attempts at humor. Regular old me tries to talk to them about books and nerdstuff.

One girl’s not enough for them; they’ve got their noses, and other appendages, up a dozen’s businesses. Leave some for the rest of us, I try and say to them but what good will my imploring do? Zilch.

Regular old me wonders why the hell did he even go to a party in the first place. Regular old me has no answer. Regular old me should go back to the nook from whence he came: where there are things that make sense and things that need regular old me to see to them.

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