Dots

There is a popular riddle that involves monks, some of whom have dots on their foreheads. There are many versions of this riddle, and it's Google-able, so I won't attempt to re-iterate the entire riddle. The monks have to figure out if they have a dot on their forehead, which in one version of the riddle signifies that they have a deadly contagious disease. But they don't have access to a mirror, can't communicate with each other, and can't tell by feeling their foreheads.

They have to deduce if they have a dot on their forehead based solely on the behavior of their fellow monks (who might also have dots on their foreheads). In some versions of the riddle, the monks only see each other at the nightly dinner. Those who have figured out that they have the dot on their forehead (and therefore the deadly contagious disease) have to kill themselves before the next dinner.

Sometimes I feel like I have a dot on my forehead that I can't feel or see when I look in the mirror. I have only started to deduce that there's a dot on my forehead based on other people's behavior. Most of my life I have gone around blissfully unaware that such a mark existed on my forehead. Maybe I saw it on other people's foreheads, but I never imagined that I would have a dot myself. That dot is the dot of a pathetic, desperate, and helpless loser who is also a jerk.

I never imagined that any of those words would at all describe me or my life. Perhaps I have a swollen ego or maybe I'm just delusional. I think my life is pretty good and that I'm a pretty decent person.

The behaviors of others indicate otherwise. Over the years, I have had some clues. One came from Mr. Small, whom I dated briefly after a period of intense friendship during which he and I spent nearly every day together. At the end of our brief torrid affair, Mr. Small accused me, basically, of being the most awful person who ever walked the Earth. I was so shocked by the awful picture he presented of me, I started to wonder who held the gun to his head, making him hang out with me every single day for months before we dated. Why did I never see this person who held a gun to Mr. Small's head, and why did this invisible person never just shoot Mr. Small and put him out of his insecurity-ridden misery?

There are also ongoing clues mostly from women in the their teens and twenties, who seem to think that any woman over 30, especially single ones, should be shot on the spot or at least sent to a leper colony. Such interactions have prompted me to wonder if there were a memo about 30th birthdays that I somehow missed. Even if I were to receive this memo, it's unclear how I am supposed to proceed with my life. Apologize for existing?

In any case, I've rubbed my forehead both figuratively and literally, and spent many minutes staring at myself in the mirror trying to see if there's a dot on my forehead. I can't see anything, so despite clues to the contrary, I'm just going to operate on the assumption that I'm okay and shouldn't kill myself.