Starving Orphans Are Us

I may have mentioned this frustration before, but Starving Orphans Are Us (the monthly newsletter for a charity group I technically belong to… uhm… well, I get the newsletter. And I signed up for Amazon smile, so that counts, right?) has moved on from giving one of my exes an occasional mention to giving him a permanent, recurring column.

Now, let’s be honest. He deserves this. And I don’t dispute that. He’s basically Mother Theresa in a goatee. He puts in the work… and has for years, and raises money in a way that involves more than tossing an extra tube of lipstick in the ol’ Amazon basket from time to time.

He’s annoying the crap out of you, already, isn’t he? Sorry about that.

Did I mention he’s wearing a kilt? No. Literally. ‘Cause one was gifted to him by the Irish orphans he carried across the Atlantic on his back while he dog-paddled them to plump security during the potato famine.

This is where I sit back and think about what he represents to me. Probably the fine fulfillment of working for a cause you truly believe in, (which I’ve been desperately out of touch with, lately) and the general love and acceptance of the people around me (which he has, while I feel a little out of place, right now.)

Either that, or an excuse to order myself something shiny.

Yes, there are rain puddles that are deeper than me.


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