For all the time I’ve had so far and all my time remaining, almost all I’ve known is the perspective from one soggy mind, and from bumping against other people’s heads, mostly via books, movies, music.

Being hyper-introverted, there have never been many friends. My wife was my best friend, but she’s dead, and so’s damned near everyone else I’ve ever felt truly connected with. It’s a side effect of living a long life.

And I’m not complaining about the long life. I’m glad every morning, to find my stay extended by another day. But it’s damned quiet around here.

The only people I see on a regular basis are my Mom, who’s 90-something and barely there, and my sister Katrina. She’s great for talking about old times and whether Mom has pooped her diapers recently, but by mutual agreement we avoid deeper topics.

Once in a while my pal Leon or Katrina’s pal Adelle come to the twice-monthly breakfasts with Mom. Leon’s a friend, but he’s uncomfortable talking politics and philosophy and he yaks during movies, so he’s a very limited friend. And I like Adelle, but she sings in her church choir, and got nervous when I once mentioned my lack of sadness at the murder of that insurance CEO.

Sometimes, my brother Clay and his wife Karen are there, and that’s nice, but we’re not close. Rarely and less nicely, my stoner nephew George shows up, to talk about his wavering sobriety and love for Donald Trump. My brother Dick, also an always-Trumper, lives ten miles away, but I haven’t seen him in a year. Who else is there?

My flatmate Dean talks at me far too often, but it’s never a conversation. Sometimes I talk with my other flatmate Robert, and it’s OK and he’s OK, but pretty soon he brings up Jesus and his church and The Bible, so we’ll never quite be friends. Our third flatmate, ‘L’, died on the toilet almost a year ago, and after the landlord cleared and cleaned the room, a new guy moved in.

His name is Chip, and we shook hands once, but our schedules mismatched so it was months before we saw each other a second time, and that was just “Hi.”

Months after that, we both came home one day at exactly the same moment, but I didn’t recognize him. We’d only seen each other twice, and I’d forgotten the house even had a fourth flatmate. Far as I knew, some stranger was standing behind me on the porch as I pulled out my keys.

“Uh, hello?” I said, brilliantly.

“Hello,” he said. “I live here, too.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved, “You’re the new guy…” He’d been living there six months by then, so he wasn’t really ‘the new guy’ any more.

“Chip,” he said. “And you’re the man in the room past the kitchen, right?”

“Yeah, but you can call me Doug.”

“Pleased to meet you again,” he said, as I turned the key.

Once inside the house, Chip said, “You don’t see me very often, because I’m usually in my room, plotting the overthrow of the US government.”

I stammered at that, but eventually said, “Well, me too.”

“Maybe we should be building our bombs together,” he said, and chuckled, and turned the key to his bedroom. I was half-flabbergasted, and half in love with the guy.

The last thing I said was, “We are just kidding here, right?” And Chip chuckled again, went into his room, and closed the door.

I don’t actually build bombs, of course, but I love a good word-bomb, and have limited affection for the US government. Radicals with violent tendencies wouldn’t joke about it with a stranger, so I’m 99% sure Chip wasn’t serious — but I wanted us to be best buddies forever. Pledged to myself that the next time I saw him in the hallway or on the porch, I’d charm him with a left-wing zinger, and maybe we’d end up at the diner together, laughing over coffee and eggs. I concocted and rehearsed a few lines for our next encounter. Hell, I even considered knocking on his door some damned day, which is the opposite of everything about me. So I never did.

A month went by and then another, and the next time I saw Chip was never. Couple of weekends ago, my sister went early-autumn camping with her boyfriend, so I spent some days and nights Mom-sitting at their home. When I returned to my shared house on Monday, Robert told me Chip had found an apartment, and moved out over the weekend.

Which brings me back to my point — that I’m an almost literally friendless old man. There’s no-one I know in the real world who shares even half my politics and cynical perspectives and general pessimism. Certainly no-one in my family, no-one in my house.

The only place I can really relax and be myself is here, on this screen you’re reading.

Thank you for that, and thanks especially for your comments when something I’ve written clicks with you. All those bombs we’ll never build, thanks for building them with me. It’s about the only thing keeping me semi-sane.

11/2/2026

itsdougholland.com
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