The Essefficist! The Essefficist! The Essefficist!
Call off the search engine parties. Rumors about the Essefficist's demise have been greatly smelly but largely unsubstantiated. Despite all attempts made by the beleaguered staff here at the Essefficist offices, none of us has been able to log in to Movable Type for the past six weeks, except for that one time, due to one or more of the following things: a fourteen month whirlwind trip to Paris (where we stayed in Hotel Henri IV for nine wonderful months), hard labor fixing up a beat-up old house in Bernal Heights, a profusion or two of holiday visitors from all over the country, or a lengthy and bruising attack by a sixty foot tall mutant moth from outer space named McGillicutty. But things are different now, or maybe just very similar to the way things were back in November, so we're back. With a vengeance. And covered in mutant moth dust. Or at least sheet rock dust.
So without further adieu, let's hear from Carnal Carl:
Dear Essefficist,
I hope you can help me with my recent moral quandary. There is a charming young woman who goes to grad school in the faraway Midwest with whom I have been canoodling whenever she's in town, every two or three months (she's an East Bay native). She is quite lovely and quite charming, and our casual rolls in the hay have been mutually lauded as fun times all around.
At the time of our last cavort, she let slip that she had spent much of her Christmas vacation in LA visiting the family of a boyfriend whose existence I was wholly unaware of, one she's apparently had for many years. She seemed surprised that I had not gleaned this, though I'm not sure how I might have done so (osmosis?). At any rate, what's my moral obligation here? I enjoy this woman's occasional company but am not caught up emotionally at all. At the same time, I'd prefer not to be consigned to Hell or slapped with any karmic retribution down the line.
Thanks!
Carnal Carl
First, let us just say, we did not make that up. That was a real question from a real reader, and we've been sitting on it for like two weeks.
Anyways, Carl, it seems to us like the best thing to do is to gracefully end the canoodling and steer things into the just-friends category, or even the not-even-friends category, depending on how much you actually like this young lady as a person (as opposed to how much you like her as a canoodler). And let's face it, chances are she may not be so great as a person, considering that not only has she been cheating on her true blue boyfriend back in Chicago or St. Louis or South Bend (or where ever the hell she's at these days), but she hasn't even had the common decency to tell you that she's been using you as an unwitting little tool -- and please, Carl, don't think that we're implying anything about the size of your tool here -- in this wicked game she's been playing. Oh! To make you feel that way! What a wicked thing to do! Granted, you could absolve yourself of all moral obligations in this matter, considering that as far as you knew you were two consenting (read: horny) adults who occasionally had the opportunity to canoodle and that all you've got to do is tell her you're maybe not so comfy with the whole mystery boyfriend thing but that you still think you've got it in yourself to be her little boy-toy. But really, it seems like, as a member of the brother hood of man, at the very least, you owe it to the mystery cuckold to end the canoodling. And if that leaves you lonely Carl, check here.
Anyways, for astounding insights into the everyday things going on around you all the time, e-mail your questions about San Francisco or your own exciting life to the Essefficist (or just post 'em in the comments). And remember, no good questions from readers equals crappy Essefficist columns. (Or pretty much none at all for, like, six weeks.) (But it's not like we're on company time here, you know.)