The Number 31

I have animosity towards The Number 31. I don’t think we get along. Every time he sits across from me with his Prada glasses, and anti-theology of casual partnership, I find him unattractive. I mean he’s cute and all, but I just don’t think we match. He calls biting and degrading humor funny, and freely sprinkles “friendly” conversation with Bitch, Fuck, and Cunt; hitting me with the blunt force trauma of his experience. . .or lack there of. I'm reminded of The Number 17. I could tell stories that would boggle his mind and quickly make his jaw drop, but I don’t want to shatter his fragile existence so I keep my mouth shut. Though The Number 31 and I are the same, we have very little in common. I'm more comfortable with Numbers 42 or 46 but then again I can’t really afford to skip ahead ten years . . . so I find myself in a perilous predicament of trying to balance an equation that starts from a false premise of equality. So either I stop judging The Number 31 so harshly, or be prepared to continuously fall short of achieving The Number 41.