The Chinese farmer surveyed the paddock, only to notice his prized stallion had vanished. Word of its disappearance spread quickly throughout the principality.
“What horrible misfortune!” cried the farmer’s brother.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
Four days later, the stallion returned accompanied by twelve others. The farmer watched as they calmly corralled themselves.
“How pleased you must be!” exclaimed a neighbour.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
All seemed resolved. Then one afternoon – a week to the day the herd had arrived – the farmer’s son was thrown from his mount and gravely injured.
“Oh, how you must suffer!” lamented the townspeople.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
The son was nursed throughout the autumn and slowly began recovering from his injuries. Near the end of his convalescence, a government official came bearing conscription papers; there was conflict in the north, and all able young men were to enlist immediately. The official, upon seeing the farmer’s bedridden son, returned the papers to his satchel and apologised before excusing himself.
The next day, the son took his first steps since the accident and began walking as though it had never occurred.
“You have been blessed!” bellowed the mystics.
“Maybe,” replied the farmer.
It was done by Saturday. She decided to extend her travel indefinitely; she’s young; she needs to get out of Perth; she loves me but if we don’t end it now it will only get more difficult come November. All of which is true.
“Motherfucker,” mumbled the writerfag once she’d left.
Unlike the farmer, I’ve never been much of a stoic and my past exuberance has found its counterpoint in my present discomfort. If I’d been indifferent; cagier; not yielded to my affection…this would have been far easier. Seamless, perhaps. I don’t have any regrets, however, and if this discomfort is the worst the universe has in store for me, then I welcome intemperance.
I stare out the bus window and try to look as affected as possible while the young mother across the aisle – who a year ago would’ve feared me stealing her purse, but who now fears me molesting her children – pulls her brood closer to her and I smile in spite of myself. For an emotional pygmy like me there’s nothing worse than having no blame to apportion and instead I’m focusing my bitterness on the slut in the window seat next to me.
“Yair, I think I’m gonna fuck him off…yeah, he just. You know? I don’t know, he’s like….blurrrh! You know? You know? Yeah, I might just not call him…I kind of want something to happen with this new…with this new guy at work, yeah. I think he has a girlfriend. Hahaha! Is that bad? Is that bad? Fuck it, she doesn’t have to know!”
And I wish I could kick her in the fucking head or stomp on her testicles so she could feel just some of the pain I feel waking up every day, but really I had one of the good ones -which is more than most can say – and I’m appreciative of that.
I know my situation is too universal not to be trite and offer it simply as an example of how readily fortunes can change, for better or worse. No one can be prepared for these machinations and whatever your stead, you’re never immune from them. If the best we can do to survive them is to douse any vitality we have within ourselves and live detached from our blood and spleen, however errant they may be, then perhaps it’d be best just to fuck it all off now and make for the ravine. Myself, I’m going to drink, write, piss on tiles, make distasteful rapist jokes, fuck up, redeem myself and keep stoking the whole convoluted process: after all, it would be unwise to think my luck won’t improve, much as it is bound to dip once more. And what of her in my future?
There’s a Chinese farmer somewhere with the answer to that.
Alasdair Beer is a three-time university dropout, a comedian, a welcher, a jaded boys' school toff, prematurely balding, adequate as a lover, inadequate as a man and afraid of his own blood. He's also a brilliant son-of-a-gun who uses the written word like a surgical saw, chopping themes off at the knees.
He also says you can have his couch. 
Racist.