Me? I, Sir, am a Bee With an Itch.

Well, it has been a couple days’ worth of self-exploration for me… and, no, not the kind that requires mood lighting and some sort of aide. I mean real self exploration, like inside my soul, you dirty, dirty people.

In the past few days, maybe a week even, I have been writing about my recurrent cycle of apathy, right? I have portrayed myself as an innocent and inoffensive living-room-equivalent-to-a-sea-cucumber, all mopey-faced in pajamas and with no energy to vent my ill will on others. Too uninterested to even think about, let alone count, the hours I waste staring at screens, any screens, and shaping scented candle wax into non-descript scented blobs.

However, I admit now that this is a false impression. I have also spent my time feeling sorry for myself, taking out my frustrations on anyone around me, and e-bitching at friends (or should I say former friends?).

I basically told one friend to jump off a cliff, and then moaned about having done this to another friend. I have screamed, glared, snapped and rolled my eyes at John more times than I have fingers. I have spat insults at my cat until he is now fighting for hiding places with John. I have appeared sulky and snotty to professors, and have virtually ignored my students (as in I dodge behind bushes or leap into snow banks if I see one of them approach on campus).

Even worse, I openly attacked a classmate as a racist. I am sorry for this one, even though I still don’t agree that those horrendous Danish cartoons were merely some sort of intriguing experiment in freedom of speech. (Sure, and Der Stürmer was just a German version of MAD Magazine!)

I have been universally rude, uncommunicative, unhelpful and, generally speaking, a turd. Besides all this magnificence, I have also managed to feel somehow smug and even superior in my grumpiness, as if my crappy mood indicated a higher state of consciousness than that of happy people (although I’m still not willing to toss that theory out all together).

I basically have acted like such a festering splinter in the eye of society that I expect to get inducted into the Alternative Rock Hall of Fame any day now, despite not being able to play an instrument or sing. (Come to think of it, though, that may not be necessary for that place, anyway.)

So, in honor of all you folks that have bore the brunt of my crapulence and petulance, I apologize. I could, as opposed to this pathetic form-letter-apology, go to each and every one of you separately and make amends in some sort of half-assed proto-Twelve Step voyage of restitution… I could, but I don’t think I will.

First of all, I don’t really want to. But that doesn’t sound very nice, so maybe I’ll resort to my meager knowledge of Biology…

I’m not sure that the human system holds enough moisture to allow me to make all the apologies I’d have to make. I’d dehydrate before I even finished saying “I’m Sorry” to all of the community of public transit users here in KW.

So you can see why personal and sincere apologies would not be biologically possible.

Please accept this e-pology instead:
Yeah, well... I’ve been a sh*t. Sorry.