It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.
A famous quote overused as a rationalization for poor behaviour. It’s like when people say I’m sorry. My response has often been “If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” That doesn’t always apply, like if you accidentally knock someone over while engaged in conversation with someone else while walking through a busy promenade. In such an instance, you might be genuinely sorry. Of course, it is also the polite answer society has ingrained in us to give, like when someone says “Hello”, we’re conditioned to immediately respond and ask how they are. If anything, it’s made us actually care less about how someone is, and more than likely we’re already thinking about something else as the words escape our lips. I like to confuse people and actually tell them how I am, in excruciating detail, and pause between thoughts just long enough for them to think they can say something to make a quick escape, only to talk over them with my next thought. I can do this for hours. Just recently I transformed a diarrhea story into the evil conquests of the king bacteria subjugating his minions and expanding his territories, all the while awakening the wrath of the mighty brown dragon, who roared and fought against them in violent protest, finally to be forever banished by the porcelain goddess down the eternal pipes of doom. Looking back, had I not told you the true subject matter, it may have made for an interesting fantasy read.
But I digress.
I was standing on a train platform this morning, headphones plugged in, listening to YC 113. I like to think I’m self-aware, and noticed the young, semi-cute brunette walking my way. When I say cute, I mean just that; she looked like a girl, trying to play at being a woman. She wasn’t porn star cute or anything.
She smiled shyly at me upon catching my glancing evaluation of her appearance. As per usual, I was wearing a tight t-shirt and jeans and I have no doubt that between the two of us, she had the more enjoyable view.
I went back to my listening, focusing on every nuance of the music, listening for imperfections, being self-critical. Then I felt extreme heat and wet on my back and my arse.
Yanking my headphones out while spinning around, I saw the same young princess stooped down trying desperately to clean her gym bag. She had just spilled a hot cup of caf all over herself … and me.
She looked up, tears in her eyes, my muscular chest an imposing but beautiful site, and as her eyes fixated on the tribal tattoo etched across my body, she said in a quivering voice, “I’m so sorry!”
Being the gentle, kindhearted gentleman I am, I replied in a gruff, curt voice, “You owe me a new shirt.” It’s all about me. I don’t care that her own blouse was ruined, or her bag; not my problem. She spilled on me; logically I’m in need of compensation. Doesn’t matter to me how young or cute you think you are.
It’s funny though how quickly her demeanour changed; a very common trait of the species in my experience. She went from the self-pitying, weeping little girl, to a snarl faced, angry, right stuck up bitch. “Are you serious?” she asked. “You expect me to buy you a new shirt? It was a fucking accident buddy.”
Ah, they grow up so quickly.
“Listen darlin, you said you were sorry. Sorry implies you want to make things right. Making things right implies you replace this shirt from the Noble Exchange.”
She went pale as a ghost upon hearing that, and literally started bawling, collapsing to her knees. Given NEX prices, I could completely understand her reaction, but refused to empathize, given her bipolar exhibitions.
“I can’t afford that!” she screamed, then looking at me with hopeful eyes, “I’ll do anything to make it up to you!” She stood up, wiping away the tears. To be honest I was a little cautious at her severe emotional mood swings, and wondered if she was going to pull a knife on me or something. Kids today, you never know.
She smiled coyly, trying to look as demure as possible. “Anything.” she repeated slyly, doing her very best to work her charms on me.
I threw her the coffee stained shirt.
“Know what? I’m good.”