Ya know, I have no problems coping with divorce — past the usual.
    I have a friend-base roughly fifty-percent men to women.  Friends are hard to find, and I’m really appreciative of those new and old who wanna hang out now and again.

     It just amazes me when a given “friend” out of a crowd would do so many things like … making plans to go hang out, and saying, “We’re leaving — I’ll call you when we’re there” and then just not show up … Making plans to celebrate my birthday (of all days) with “I’ll give you a call around 6PM tomorrow” and then — nothing … Saying, “Oh, hey, you’re a real friend.  Thanks for listening!  It’s so nice to meet a guy who isn’t out for sex!  Here’s my number. Call me any time!” and — it’s a wrong number.

     You can say the first two are just standard “flaky” crap.  I can forgive easily enough.  In the immortal words of Benny Skyn, “clocks don’t work, and tires blow / and alibis seem like lies when alcoholics say ‘em!”
     The third thing, the wrong number, might not have been so bad had her explanation for it not changed repeatedly to the point of being a twisted.  Unapologetic, boasting of giving that number to everyone.  I didn’t ask for her number, however — she volunteered it, and made me promise to call.

     One night at 1AM, as I was dead tired and leaving, she decided to call me “rude” because I was dead set of leaving, alone, going to bed… well … hey … That’s more crap than I need.

     Given the chance that there was a misunderstanding, I still tried to hang out in a group of people.  It didn’t bother me that me she was there — everybody was having fun, and all was good.
     All of sudden, she blurted out something about, “If you have something to say to me, say it in private!”
     Now, I have no idea, mind you — I’m minding my own business talking to a guy about garage sales and antique shops in the area, and apparently, even though she understood the word “kitsch,” she assumed I was calling her a “bitch.”  Now, it wasn’t a misunderstanding of a “K” to a “B” — in fact, it was so much more simple: she knew I said “kitsch,” didn’t know the meaning of it, and assumed it meant “bitch.” 
     Because it rhymed.

     This is not my problem.

     And them, given the explanation that I wasn’t calling her a bitch in any way, and explaining the word “kitsch” in a most simplistic way (1950’s art-deco), it was to no avail.  Even understanding that, finally, she still felt the need to lambast me to everyone else for being “rude” to her.

     It’s really easy for me to say “Bye!” these days.  “Hi, thanks, I’ve had enough.  F!@# off.   Please?  Thank you.”  I just don’t feel like dealing with some peoples’ crap.

     Much less hers.