The Mock Dock

Why do you do it?
I do it because I hate small talk, nicety, empty vapid discussion.
Like this one?
Weather, last night’s game, kids, holidays.
But don’t you think that these topics make others comfortable.
Comfortable with what? Stupid crap? But it doesn’t make me comfy.
What makes you “comfy”?
Self-medication, my boxer shorts, a pad and paper and lo-fi music. Definitely NOT you.
So because of your self-loathing, you avoid nice people?
Yes. I will go a mile out of my way to avoid someone who is hell-bent on having trivial conversations that won’t amount to anything in the long run. As if I will. Yes, I can see the irony. No detective work needed here. You stupid poochugging crackhound.
I know you are but what am I?
Really mature.
Hello pot, this is kettle.
Nice. What is this grade school?
I hope not. If it is, you will probably wet your bed tonight.
I don’t wet the bed anymore. I lay awake. Cry. Masturbate. Analyze my existence. If I’m lucky, I may fall asleep to the glory of a nocturnal emission.
Wow. You do live the high life. Even in your dreams, you fail.
My dreams are the only place I am normally even remotely close to normal. Sometimes I make onion rings with my friends in the woods or on a boat. And then this wizard-looking old dude throws all the rings in the water. I dive in. But can’t get them before they sink. My friends cry because the onion rings are gone. I drown.
I know. So you are futile and worthless to other’s joy.
I guess. I could figure that out on my own. I am living it, you know. It just seems that you really aren’t that necessary. I have a pretty good handle on all that I am and will never be.
It really seems that way.
I hate you. You are a smug little turdcutter.
Fine. I am out of here. I am going to Starbuck’s for a non-fat, no-water Chai. You know where the real writers hang out.
The ones that feel the need to let the world know that they are writers. Not failures. As am I. Can you get me some house blend, black?
We’ll see. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.
Hopes up. Yeah, that is something to warn ME about. Jerk. But, really. Can you get me some?