Martine was extremely intelligent and hated it.
He hated being asked for help. He hated knowing how TV shows would end before they did. He hated planning ahead of time when everyone else couldn’t seem to see more than five or six steps ahead.
He had an incredibly stressful job, although it paid well. Others in his position sought out alcohol fine alcohol, served in fancy clubs; but it was alcoholism nevertheless.
Some sought out prodommes. They seemed to enjoy this. Some sought them in furtive but incredibly pricey apartments; some sought them in great houses on the edge of town.
Martine wanted to stop thinking. He’d considered bloodsports, but it turns out he was terrible out them. He’d taken up bowling, baseball, soccer, football, Dungeons and Dragons.
All they did was make him stupider.
But Martine lived in Manhattan; he was a retired commuter. And he lived near Columbia. 5-6 times a month…it was sometimes now these days…there’d be a protest.
He never checked to see what the protests were about. He didn’t want to know. What if it was against something of which he was in favor? Embarrassing.
But he went for the crowd. Stupid people in large groups? Most certainly. More intoxicating than wine or methadone.
Martine’s brain was never more quiet than when he was in the center of three or ten or fifty dozen people, screaming at the top of his lungs that everything was broken, messed up, and needed to be fixed NOW.
Ah, sweet thoughtlessness!
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You can find Jeff Mach at Catskills Halloween. And you might well enjoy 13 Ogre Rules For Life — Jeff Mach Writes
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