Things better left unsaid

I have far too many psychological, emotional and intellectual dysfunctions to be of any use to a good woman.

That's probably what I should have written in my Plenty of Fish (POF) profile. Instead, I waxed about what a great fellow I am.

Turns out, sadly, that I'm Plenty of Trouble (POT) — too much baggage, really, to be taken seriously.

Isn't that what we do, though. We think so highly of ourselves, particularly when we are trying to impress others. Yes, I went to university. Yes, I know something about quantum physics. Yadayada.

Meaningless really.

How does one embrace the scope of one's life without sounding high-falutin? I've done some innovative things — bold things, stuff no one has ever heard about. I'm actually a spectacular guy. Yeah right.

No one wants to hear about how, when I picked up a fare at the bus depot, I dropped her that $20US tip I'd just received from a bunch of drunk, and wealthy and toffee-nosed Americans. She needed a place to stay. I would have taken her to my place but some sort of weird gallantry took over. (I should have taken her home; banged her; then taken her to that shelter. Whatever.)

No one needs to know some things.

I don't talk about the abduction of which I was unwittingly a part. Call comes over the air about a guy and his kids at the bus depot. (It's always the bus depot.) They need to go to the airport, pronto. I get there, pick them up. But there, in the rear-view mirror is this woman and a security guard chasing me down. I drove off into the afternoon sun.

When we got to the airport, there's a waiting jet. My fare left; didn't tip.

I had kidnapped two children.

Yes. There are things we cannot talk about.

Enough said.

P.S. The lovely woman who messaged me on POF: Sorry about being such a dank. Call me some time. Or, having read this, maybe not such a good idea. Take care.