Taking a random stroll through my Facebook contacts the other day, I noticed that I was suddenly no longer ‘friends’ with a few people. And I thought they’d just been fairly silent lately.

I wasn’t particularly upset or annoyed by the abrupt banishing, because it seems to happen relatively frequently for some reason, but I did find it to be both enlightening and rather amusing.

One of the people in question had been a somewhat recent addition to my ‘friends’ list – a former instructor I’d had at university. She taught folklore under the anthropology department. The last interaction I’d had with her was roughly a week earlier. I’d posted my disgust at having heard on the ‘music’ channel at Big Box DIY – and far in advance of the relevant holiday – The 12 Days of Christmas as performed by the Muppets.

First of all, I hate Christmas music. Hate Christmas music. HATE. IT. It is, to me, next to rap, the scourge of musical entertainment. Also, I’m not a fan of Christmas. It is not a holiday I celebrate. So having this syrupy dreck forced upon me at every turn is very like torture to me.

And one of the worst musical offenders in this snivelling, ululating genre is The 12 Days of Christmas. I simply cannot abide that fucking song. It is, to me, the equivalent of fingernails across a chalkboard. Combine this jangling, repetitive atrocity with the squealing falsetto of Miss Piggy, and play it several times a day over the course of more than two months, and I want to go on a five state killing spree.

‘I love the Muppets!’ had been her objection to my complaint. And she went on to provide lengthy discourse on the relative merits of puppetry and the need to never release the embrace of one’s inner child and blah blah blah, and concluded with an admonition that I must be very dour indeed not to delight in the joy of Christmas (‘I wish it could be Christmas every day of the year and it can’t come soon enough for me!’) and the ‘whimsical nature’ of appreciating having a discordant song shouted at you in whinging falsetto by a man with his fist stuffed up a toy pig’s ass.

I responded by saying that though I have nothing specifically against the Muppets, and that I quite enjoy Statler and Waldorf or even The Land of Gorch on occasion,  I do, however, embrace my ‘whimsical nature’ in ways which do not include puppets or clowns.

I could almost hear an audible gasp in her reply when she stated that ‘those who deny that part of their nature are the people who never seem to be happy.’

My follow-up was simply that I can be quite happy, thank you, without Muppets and clowns to validate my whimsy.

And then I was no longer her ‘friend.’

Seemed rather an extreme measure to take simply because we disagreed over something so thoroughly meaningless. But then I suppose if this sort of action is a person’s typical response to argument or debate, rather than engaging in considered and thoughtful dialogue, then perhaps it indicates their embrace on their inner childishness is stronger than they’d imagined…

So needless to say it’s been a couple of months since my last post.

The long silence hasn’t been intentional – I’ve certainly wanted to post, actually meant to post – but sometimes these things happen. Part of the reason, as with most of these annoying dry spells, has a lot to do with my university schedule and the particular classes I’m taking. In this case Algebra. Which I’ve got absolutely no understanding of at all, as the three of you know from previous entries. The other part of it has to do with a loads of personal issues. And though I do not tend to shy away from airing them here on occasion, I do sometimes feel as though they aren’t terribly interesting and that I’m simply talking to myself when I write about them.

Of course I feel like I’m talking to myself most of the time anyway, so there’s that.

In my last post, just down below a bit, I went on a bit of whinging regarding my fascination with a woman at work called Miranda. Since that post we, Miranda and I, have had a date (of sorts) and a very weighty conversation, the bottom line of which is that I am ‘so not’ her type but we can still go out, we just can’t ‘go out.’

I was gutted, obviously, because every indication I’d got off her prior to that time was that there may possibly be some mutual interest despite our age difference. But no.

In the meantime, another woman I work with – although not as often – had begun showing what I thought to be an interest in me. I’m not sure if it came about because of my constant talking about Miranda or if I’d just not previously noticed it because Miranda was so much of a distraction to me. Regardless, she – the other one, Rebecca – was quite keen to point out with great frequency that she, in fact, had a boyfriend. This was a regular part of casual conversation, almost used like a warning of sorts. As such I never encouraged or initiated anything (because cheating is something I cannot abide). The one exception to that was when she met me, somewhat surprisingly, for drinks after work one evening. I say it was a surprise because though we’d often talked about drinking after work (as disgruntled employees often do) it was something which I’d never really expected to happen. People constantly talk about things they want to do and never do them.

She’d begun texting frequently, and at all hours, after that night and I began to find myself getting rather uncomfortable with the situation. Not because I had no interest in her – because I did have – but because of her relationship status. Coming between two people was not at all something I wanted to do. Then, two weeks later, she came to work in a miserable state and explained that her boyfriend had walked out on her. Apparently she’d discussed her post-graduate plans with him and he wanted no part of them.

I told her I felt terrible for her and that if she wanted to talk, I was available.

And that was virtually the last time she’s spoken to me. Now she avoids almost any contact with me unless it’s absolutely required by the mandate of our job.

That’s where things stand at the moment. Miranda has cast me to the dark pit of The Friend Zone, Rebecca won’t speak to me for whatever ridiculous reason unless it’s absolutely necessary, I’m struggling with maths, and I’m still avoiding Food Network like the plague.

Long-time readers who may recall my previous on-line dating experience ending in a Nigerian money scam will be happy to note that, despite having deleted my account with that service, I received an email off them a few days ago begging for me to reactivate my account because they’d evidently scoured the globe and found a nice girl for me called Mathew.

Some days I just don’t understand anything…