I have become a cynical, distant, lover of my own thoughts. I romanticize depression and solitude, while the world has fun. I love to think myself superior, while simultaneously knowing I’m not. It’s just an act, to get from one boring moment to the next. So, in desperation, I decided to play golf on a luke-warm beautiful blue day. The skinny blonde in the pro shop wears a pink polo shirt, with tattoos in all the wrong places. She doesn’t belong.

“It looks pretty busy… did a tournament go out earlier today?” I ask.

“Yes. Do you want to pay for twilight?”

“Yeah.” I can tell she doesn’t know anything. She got hired because she was hot; I don’t even think she plays golf. We all have a sixth sense about these things. I meet the guy I’m paired up with. He has a pony tail, white hair—probably a hippie educator. I can spot them anywhere… their Prius, their love, their reading of books written by disaffected dissidents. I knew what I was in for. He would tell me that he had a handicap of 32 and shot over 100. This would break the ice, the prime message being… “I’m just a guy that needs to get out and walk for a bit.” The conversation would be superficial, mostly about golf courses, handicaps, and what we did for work. He would be pleasant to perfection. And he was. Luckily, I only had to play nine holes with him. There is only so much pleasantness I can take before I want to start a fight. Don’t tell me why I think these thoughts—it’s the desperation to make something happen, something that makes the cardboard faces burn.

Dark spiritual fog usually makes people stay away from me, and it’s utopia, but when I have conquered my spiritual problems through clean living, meditation, and ethics, people are attracted to me. I have experienced both, and I prefer not to be bombarded by superficial praise or sycophantic magnetism. It may be what the celebrities experience, a similar syndrome where they all get together and whine about how famous they are and how much money they have. This plays out in the workplace in the following way…

“You know, so and so was talking about you, but I don’t think you’re an interesting person.” This is a straight-up test I get a lot—always from the female, and No, I’m not being sexist.

“You should get a Harley; then everyone would think of you differently.” I could tell her that I don’t care what other people think, but this is always said by people who care the most, so I stay silent. Apparently, I’m not reacting how she wants. She doesn’t know why. I know why. It’s the spiritual discipline. Then she says…

“You know, I heard you did some traveling; so did I. I went to these islands above Norway; they look like sperm.” I don’t react; she’s the science teacher, so she has an out.

Back on the golf course, I was having some strange thoughts, while holding a pleasant conversation. I don’t wonder what others are thinking, because I am thinking. I love golf because of the distance between shots. Long periods of walking and thinking. Girls up ahead. Both wearing mini-skirts. They are attractive.

I finish 9 holes with the hippie and start playing by myself. Canadian Geese are everywhere, pooping, and eating. I think about what might happen if I slip and fall.

THE END