Ma Seychelle

I wouldn’t consider myself a “people person.” Lately—and I say lately because there’s a small chance I wasn’t always this way—I tend to prefer island living. This is where I visit the mainland (other people) for supplies or amusement, but I always have the option of sailing back to solitude. Worse (or better) it’s a sovereign island. I am in total control of my territory.

But also lately, I’ve begun to realize this is not a naturally self-sustaining one. Its fresh water is dependent on how much rain I’ve had, and I have to work pretty hard to collect it. I also tire of eating plantains, slaying my own chickens, and drinking the rum alone. I figure I could do worse than being stuck in the Caribbean.

At least I’m not Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball.

But I’m finding for the second or third time, someone has dared to move onto my island. A relationship falls into my life with all the subtlety and inevitability of an ACME airborne anvil. It’s huge, and heavy, and by the time I see it coming, there’s really no point in moving aside. Besides, cartoon anvils chase their targets.

Now I’m annoyed to find my island’s neither self-sustaining NOR sovereign.

It’s as if some Imperial Power has undertaken a very offensive (to me) relocation project, populating my island. When I can, I post these invaders’ heads on a stake and watch them shrink. This way I always have civilized company without having to live in a Barbarian community with cannibal neighbors.

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