My dear Nameless,
Hormones are messing me up. I feel fragile and constantly on the verge of tears. I want cake, comfort, food, and hugs – which I am afraid to go to any of my friends for because while they may be elderly, understanding, and ‘just a little portly’ (excellent for teddy bear hugs by the way) –they are also male! Not only male but Madalas.
Who are they?
They are a bunch of friends who have all become my friends. I keep them young with youthful banter and a fresh take on life, while they age me with cynicism and make me financially wiser. Seems like a fair trade-off. No?
The first one I met of the lot is an introverted, closet intellectual slash philosopher and art lover guised as a reckless “fuck about” (not my words) who still hasn’t figured out his life at the grand old age of 43. But that’s all a ruse. The truth is far worse. This guy is the consummate bachelor, an absolute connoisseur of life if you can think it- looks no older than 35 and has a “devil may care’ attitude that makes him wildly irresistible. Point to note: the Mandalas are all 43 years old, and were classmates at some point or another – with the exclusion of the older brothers who are occasionally part of the gang for birthdays and such events when they must all convene at Marlin Restaurant. Where else would you find old money?
Anyway, these are my friends. People whose regrets and triumphs serve as beacons of light along the path that is my life.
It doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. But I love these guys to bits. Albeit at a very necessary arm’s length.
An old man; an ‘old one’. Frequently as a term of somewhat affectionate or respectful address, especially to an elderly black man.