Today, I was nearly home from my walk with Tchae when some rancher dude stopped his truck, rolled down the window, and said he liked my dog. Do fully grown farmer-men really go gaga (alliteration. Je suis en ecstase!!!) for little white fluffy dogs? I suppose only the repressed Brokeback Mountain type. J’espere that he does not wish to Brokeback it with my innocent little doggy. Doggy- get it? Hahahah and an abundance of fake laughs.
The particular trouble here is that I’m certain the dog-marveling was a rouse because I know he’s seen me going in and out of my house. When he rolled down that window and I saw his face, I suddenly realized that I’ve been aware of him watching me around town. Watching me at my house. I cannot develop another Marfa Stalker!!!! I say develop because Stalk-Ylana Syndrome seems to be a virulent and contagious, and possibly incurable, virus. If he starts up, he will be #6. That’ll teach me to wear real pants. This must come to an end, I say. J’en peu plus! Sweatpants, here I come!!!
Sadly, the prevalence of this ailment cannot be attributed to any meritorious qualities I might have. Drats! No no, it is simply a product of the fact that the male to female ratio is exceptionally askew here. I don’t know the specifics, but there are beaucoups man to every woman. Thus, Marfa men are high school hormonal-ish on a permanent basis, and when they spy something of vaguely feminine character, they are uncontrollable. And a touch frightening, for though they have the testosterone levels of a pre-teen, they have the build of, well, middle-aged ranchers.
So, just like they always teach you in rape prevention classes, I shall return to a life of loose waistbands and menswear. Comfort galore! Perhaps there is something to celebrate in all this after all. That is me, ladies and gentlemen. Always looking on the bright side of life! Sunshine Barbie!!! Oh brother. I really have to stop. And I will. I am turning off my brain, dear friends, in an effort to preserve your sanity.
A plus tard, when I will have recovered at least a modicum of normalcy (the only sliver of it that is part of my character, mind you). It appears I have not been as successful in detaching as I proclaimed I would be.
Goodbye now, I’m off to lick my wounds and fortify my house for the 6th time. And to give Tchae some Bach’s flower remedy for stress: this continuous threat of invasion has turned her into a totally neurotic barking mess. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose! ( Farewell, and let us hope I am not ravaged in the night. Or carted off to some far-away ranch to cook steak, meatloaf, and…steak for my rancher kidnapper husband.
Leave A Comment