Based on my mind-melds with doctors whom I follow mindlessly—I’m talking Drs. Oz, Phil and Seuss—I am convinced that my psyche needs more pity. Raw, unadorned sympathy—the kind that has others thinking, “I may have it bad, but look at that miserable Bob Sitze—How does he find any joy in life?” To help elicit your kind commiseration, these details:
- Because I wear a mask for untold hours, I have to wash heavy-breathing mask gunk/residue off my glasses at least 20 times a day. (And there is no cure….)
- My spam filters are filled with fake notices—expired anti-hacking programs, warnings, free money, mistaken online orders—based on what AI formulas have determined about me: They think I’m stupid.
- Not shaving as well as I should, I find that nascent beard hairs are ripping tiny threads off the inside of my masks. These small wisps of mystery fabric tickle my nose, causing me to sneeze uncontrollably—while masked. (Yes, YUCK!)
- For over two years, I took every precaution I was supposed to, but the Omicron BA.5 sub-variant still found me. How am I supposed to deal with COVID when it won’t play fair?
- The local classical FM station is going off the air for awhile tomorrow: “Helicopter work on our tower.” They think I don’t see through that conspiracy? Come on….
- Sometimes things are so bad that I get silly.
- For reasons I don’t fully understand, people laugh at me.
As you can well see—thanks for that—my life is filled with reasons for the pity that I so desperately need. Thoughts and prayers? Sure, but sympathy is what keeps me going. And if you can’t oblige me, I’ll just sit here in the dark, feeling sorry for myself.
That seems to work, too….
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