Secret Admirers

Manny Furious woke up early on New Year’s Day because he’s a loser who didn’t stay up all night getting drunk. Plus he had work, because he somehow had gotten himself a job that requires people dumb enough to apply for the job to work holidays. Anyhow, the sun was out bright but it was visibly frigid outside and he turned up the thermostat, which has a mechanism that would allow him to schedule it to kick on automatically at certain times of the day and to specific temperatures, but even seven years of living with such a luxury is not long enough, apparently, to combat his natural laziness and refusal to make the effort to learn how to engage such a mechanism.

He jumped onto the internet and scrolled through facebook, liking everyone’s New Year’s posts, except it was 7:30 in the morning, and he became self-conscious because everyone would realize he was up so early and therefore a loser who didn’t stay up all night getting drunk. So, first he wrote a tanka that went:

Every other year

I seem to have a midlife

crisis. It bodes well

for my longevity, I

attempt to convince myself. 

Then, he checked his email.

Much to his surprise a “secret admirer” had sent him a message stating:

“To a very handsome man,

                May the New Year bring you much joy and find you in the

                perpetual protection of the Angels, Buddhas and Immortals.

                                                                                 Sincerely,

                                                                                 Your Secret Admirer”

That was nice. He had always wanted a secret admirer. Beginning in his youth, and even occasionally in the present,  he had often times borne the misfortune of being a secret admirer himself, but had never had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of one’s affections or overtures. That, combined with the unexpected blessings of good will made his eyes well and forced him to fight back tears…although one (or two) managed to manifest through sheer will.

He took a screenshot of the email and forwarded it to his old buddy, Fat Milo, hoping it would make him envious. To Furious’s surprise Fat Milo was awake and texted Furious back immediately.

“You sent it to yourself, last night. Right before you went to bed, probably,” Fat Milo texted, circling the 9:30pm time stamp in the corner of the email with a digital red marker.

“So?” Furious texted back.

“So…what’s the point?”

“I always wanted a secret admirer,” Furious texted, simply.

Furious lamented his ever-present laziness, once more, in failing to establish a new, fictional email account instead of using a pre-existing one under his own name.

He ventured into the frost and into work, and spent the rest of the first day of the new year looking up pre-Socratic Greek philosophers on Wikipedia and playing chess frustratingly poorly on his phone. Basically, activities that didn’t require him to actually do the job that he was getting paid to do.

He also wrote the following poems:

The Cold and I–

When did we become

Such bitter enemies.

                                                       Diogenes

                                                      kept jerking off in public. 

                                                     When asked what the hell

                                                     he was doing

                                                    he stated he only wished he could address

                                                   his hunger

                                                  by rubbing his tummy. 

                                                 What an 

                                                 enlightened 

                                                man!

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