Nachos, bella?

Sometimes I think I spent my past life as an Italian stud.

I think I must have prayed on lonely women who visit Rome in an effort to forget their abusive/closeted gay/simply not interesting enough middle-aged husbands.

I think this because I often find myself invading my male friends personal space when I sense that they are in emotional distress. I don’t consciously do this because I want to sleep with the, but perhaps there is some sort of inner skeaze I haven’t fully reckoned with who hopes to get, at the very least, some sort of monetary reward for the gesture.

Perhaps, another reason I question my former position on earth, is because during such interactions (which more often than not take place at sports bars, pubs or any other place where liquor is cheap and isn’t considered poor taste to purchase alcohol at ten in the morning) I usually comfort them by saying banally worded, yet somewhat toughing in their emotional simplicity, nuggets of pseudo-wisdom that would cause any woman my age to roll her eyes in the back of her head.

For instance, when my males friends say, “god my shitty car SUCKS so bad and I need to get a new one.  SHIT!”

I say, “Emotions are what separate us from robots, go on cry.”

And when they look at me like, what are you talking about you crazed woman? I respond with something like, “Say it like you eat, put it plainly! And lay your head down if you must!”

Usually they don’t understand my simple heart or my philosopher and poet nature.  Most likely I get  a strained stare, questioning whether or not they have been friends with me out of stupidity, desperation or simply plain, tragic oversight.  Sometimes, they offer me nachos.