If You Don’t Have Anything Nice to Say…

“And Nietzsche, with his theory of eternal recurrence; he said that the life we lived we're gonna live over again the exact same way for eternity. Great, that means I'll have to sit through the Ice Capades again.”

I feel like Woody Allen in Hannah and Her Sisters.

SIDE NOTE: I can no longer pay to see Woody Allen movies in the theatre with a clear conscience; therefore, a few years ago, he made my ever-growing boycott list. I’ll still watch his movies on cable, though, and my favorite remains tied between Radio Days and Annie Hall. And Manhattan. Although Crimes and Misdemeanors isn’t bad either.

Anyway, remember when Woody Allen is waiting for his tests to come back and thinks he may have a brain tumor? That’s how I feel right now.

Therefore, I’m going to speak on behalf of everyone out there getting poked and prodded to discover “the problem”, not to mention those who ultimately receive bad news. Hopefully, I won’t be one of them, but you never know. I figure I should get this off my double Ds just in case. (I’m really a “C”, but double Ds sound so much better.)

Everyone, please stop with:

-Emails detailing all the people who have died, lost hair, lost limbs, and lost brain cells as a result of low platelets. That’s not what I mean by “keep in touch”.

-Blowing smoke in my face and choking out statements like, “At this point, what does it matter?”

-Complaints about minor irritants in your own life. I’ll gladly sit down and discuss real problems you’re facing, but crying over a chest cold is a bit much.

-Conversations beginning with, “I can’t believe you still exercise and eat right. Talk about a lost cause.”

-Insults. Just for a little while. I’m aware of my idiosyncrasies; I don’t need them outlined right now. And I promise when you’re awaiting test results for testicular cancer, I won’t blast you for worshiping the Buffalo Bills.

-Self-absorption. Just for the record, you’ve got the cushiest job known to man. I know because I have the same goddamn job. And it’s a piece of cake. You want pressure? Try working sixty hours a week for a job that requires at least eighty, competing against Harvard grads all while preventing staff members from overthrowing management. Teaching is a walk in the park compared to the cut-throat corporate world. So quit yer bitching. Please.

Don’t get me wrong. I still enjoy a good row over politics (federal emergency agencies don’t have to wait for an invitation to go in and save lives); pop culture (Get Behind Me Satan is album of the year) and sports (go Red Sox). I would just like to hear a heartfelt, “How are you doing?” somewhere in the conversation. I’m allergic to self-pity and will probably blow off the question. It’s still nice to be asked.

To recap, if you’re not going to be supportive, take your business elsewhere.

Five people will swear this is about them and to each one I say,

“You’re right. Now bugger off and join a support group. Don’t bother me any more with negativity and insensitive comments. I want kindness, positive thoughts, and sexual favors. In that order. If you can’t get with the program, there’s the door.”

And leave me alone will be the last thing you hear from me.