You can’t have my life force. You will not and cannot take my chi. You can’t fill your neediness with my energy; I’m wise to your Jedi mind tricks, and your attempts to rob me of my essence will fail, breaking upon the rock that is my soul; your emotional kung fu is weak, and cannot pierce the veil created by my mental lei of garlic.
In all seriousness, I feel bad for you; I know you don’t do it on purpose. Rather, it’s a matter of instinct. You prowl the night, foraging like a tiger in the brush. The endless pit of despair that is your need drives you to reach out. I smell it on you, loneliness tinged with self doubt; in some cases even extreme loathing manifesting in self torment. You produce multiple bogeys on my NEEDAR.
I empathize with your loneliness; believe me. Alienation is my middle name. Misfits and Misanthropes ‘R’ Us. I guess that’s why I can’t help but try and be nice, making small talk even as I raise my shields and make note of the exits. But I can’t help you. You look outward; I look inward. No one is an island, it’s true; but I’m fairly content with only occasional visitors of my own choosing, relishing solitude as it suits. I’m just here at this bar to observe and enjoy the eye candy, like the candy that serves me drinks.
Remove the arrow of your suffering yourself; the instructors didn’t cover treatment of that in my first responder training. If I were a Buddhist, I would feel that it is my duty to teach you how to do that, but I’m not, and it is not my job. My job is to look to my own arrows, thank you very much. You’re on your own with yours. Good luck; I wish you well.
This, the Mother Post of All Mixed Metaphors and Allusions — brought to you by Glenfiddich! If you can’t feel your esophagus after you swallow, it’s not single malt! — will now draw to a close. Sorry to my friends — the ones I choose to let onto my exclusive beach — who were concerned with my need for a hasty exit this evening.
Thank you and good night.