I Got SoulSusan>> You have no soul.
You'd be surprised how often she says that.
Actually... You probably wouldn't.
I'm not sure why she does it. I'll be minding my own business, just sitting there crafting or farming or something, and I'll hear those terrible, terrible words:
Susan>> Oh, you have to come and see this.
It's funny. Our computer room isn't that big, but it is a damned pain in the ass to get up and walk all the way over there.
I almost got exercise once.
That's not funny.
After giving an audible huff of annoyance, I get up and make the long, arduous trek to her desk.
Must be eight... Maybe ten feet.
When I finally get there, I find out that I have made this journey to see either:
a) an uninteresting video clip
b) a random person's facebook pictures
c) something else totally not worth the effort
She likes Facebook. I get that.
If she feels like spending four hours looking at pictures from a birthday party for someone she hasn't talked to in 15 years that she also wasn't invited to, that's her business.
Do you know what it's not?
And yet, everytime she finds one of these things, a random photo album, a heart-warming news story, the latest clip from John and Kate Plus 8, she calls me over to share it with me.
I feign interest, but she can tell I'm not interested.
Maybe it's in the subtle way I shuffle my feet or the general lack of commentary.
Maybe it's the constant loud sighs and rolled eyes.
Probably the feet shuffling.
And then, as always, she looks up at me and says the same thing:
Susan>> You have no soul.
Honestly, it's a good thing she told me. I could have sworn I had my soul a minute ago.
Now, where did I leave that thing?
Souls... Always in the last place you look.
Can someone please explain to me how not weeping every time one of the Roloff's does anything translates into me not having a soul?
I have feelings and emotions.
Of course I do.
I keep them buried deep down in the furthest reaches of my black heart.
You know... Like you're supposed to.
Then I pour whiskey on them.
I just don't understand how any of that becomes a measure of my humanity.
Yes, I can see the value of some of the stories. I can understand on an analytical level why some people might experience emotions while seeing these things.
I get that.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to start crying my eyes out.
Crying is meant for important things.
Like when a big money synth blows up in your face.
That's crying time.
Or maybe... MAYBE if you are in intense physical pain.
The only kind of pain a man can understand.
Under those circumstances, it would be deemed acceptable if you got a little misty.
But Susan... She will go out of her way to make herself cry. She will actively seek out movies whose sole purpose is to induce crying.
Does that make any sense?
Yes, yes. The story was passionate and moving.
OH NOEZ! The boat is sinking and Kate Winslet is too selfish to even bother sharing the raft with Leonardo DiCaprio.
Let us all cry when, exactly as you'd expect, he ends up freezing to death.
That makes loads of freaking sense.
Then again, at least if I was watching movies, it would be a conscious action on my part. I would be choosing to sit down and watch a movie that was probably going to make me cry.
That I could at least understand.
Getting called away from something I'm enjoying to watch something that completely doesn't interest me?
Not so much.
And yet... Every single time...
Susan>> You have no soul.
I wonder if I'm going to cry at the funeral.