Written By Mark Abraham
Try to explain everything, where you came from where you are going to and how and why but by the third woman you realize no one is listening. You are talking to yourself and everybody has lost their patience, the world’s attention span is short and all everybody is looking at is the glitter, the lights and the drama of the moment. The mechanics belong to the nerds that make it happen, the PHDs and the QBEs who agonize over the principals that drive men mad in times of economic depression and political catastrophe when once again the cerebral ideologues rise to prominence and the going rate of knowledge momentarily counters material wealth; but never do they get the girl, at least not their first love, not the second one and hardly the fifth one. The nerd you are has to settle for that super cute, light skinned muhima who wants you for your car. But you are forty now and even though you are at the top of society’s echelons and command not just wealth but knowledge and acclaim, there are legal and genetic barriers between you and the one that started it all like her matrimonial contract to the one she chose and the biological process called aging.
Were you a lesser man you could regret being ambitious but the world needed you and you couldn’t say no to its need, without you it would have crumbled – oh what a colossal mess earth would have been without your ground breaking research on increasing the tolerance of steel to tensile stress. Wait, how about the noble prize who would they have given to? What a great calamity that would have been! And thanks to you steel structures are more durable, more extensible and your great contribution to science is only next to Einstein’s equation of relativity. Big deal, big applause!And what an agony to sleep with a woman who is half your age, a sexual freak who looks like an angel and whose thoughts revolve around you. And all those lucky guys who got the woman they loved, who now like them is forty years old and
infertile and probably toothless and way past her prime whose breasts are sagging and whose uterus is toxic and whose blood pressure worries the doctor, bet those fortunate guys really pity the then penniless clown whose love they stole. Sob, sob our heartfelt empathy goes to you Mr. fancy words, how we feel for you having to put up with that micro waist, micro miniskirt wearing brain dead ankole beauty when you could have had her rapidly depreciating mother.
Oh how we feel for you and in equal measure castigate that nefarious, obnoxious bitch that you call your first love who irreparably destroyed your emotional existence, that bitch whose rejection denied you the amazing opportunity to witness her aging, to partake in her agonies and to finance her abortions. If it weren’t for her you would be an average Joe working nine to five for the man in a dead end career but she had to go and spoil it and make you a nocturnal math’s addict and the greatest physicist of your time. Oh what an agonizing fate to be the one who discovers the unknown elastic properties of a little known steel alloy, to be the one to have to tell the world that their physics is out of date, that a radical new approach to molecular engineering is necessary and hence propel the world into a new industrial age. But it all shouldn’t have been, you could have had an amazing life sleeping with the same woman from your twenty fifth year to your death but she broke your heart and condemned you to a lengthy string of rejections and an even longer string of affairs with women whose beauty was so unrealistic the rest of us could only dream about. No wonder she’s so lost and so withdrawn from the world, hidden in her husband’s house and locked away from society because she is too burdened by the shame of creating the greatest particle physicist of his time. What a bitch!
So, mate you have finally found us. We who understand your predicament, who see past the brilliant glow of your golden Swiss watch and the listen through the roaring sound of your V12 turbo charger, who see past the humongous hips of your next ex girlfriend. Keep talking mate, let it all out because the first step is admitting you have a problem and yes it’s okay to cry.