It really goes back to your childhood doesn’t it. I can see the lonely nights, you among the adults at the campground, talking about “how many Blue Gill Ed caught,” or “which Scratch-off tickets were ‘totally worth playing’”.

After the picnic tables had been cleared, you would slip on your flip-flops and head to the Rec. Center to play a mean game of Skee-ball. But he was always there. Wasn’t he? He never respected your space. He would touch you where only the doctors were supposed to touch. The Dark Eyes bottle pressed against your thigh.

I understand that you would retreat to a fantasy world and surround yourself with the empty souls that line the streets and fill the screens of Hollywood. A dream land where each of these perfect beings couldn’t and wouldn’t hurt you. Each of them were so useless to the world in which they existed that you didn’t rely on them as you did “him”. They didn’t put food on your family’s picnic table. These celebrities allowed you to escape your dependence.

And so it is, that as an adult, you lie alone at night in your studio apartment, dried macaroni and cheese on the hot plate, shamefully masturbating with your right hand whilst holding “Us” magazine in your left, a single tear rolling down your cheek. When your shame is spent you wipe yourself off with the sleeve of your “TweetyBird sweatshirt” and slowly dress.

Each button of your Dairy Queen drive-thru Employee of the Month uniform hides your shame. For there you have found the true, No Schmoe. You have made it. You are better than he could ever be. It is only through the daily dalliance of passing lactose-laced confections through a window as you are covered in viscous goo that you can truly breathe.

So, I say to you No Schmoe, keep on keeping on. And thank you for opening my eyes to my very own idiocy.

Absurdly yours,
Holmes Caymen
holmes@themockdock.com