I'm a Hermit

I'm a hermit and I live in a cave. Not many people know this because not many people know who I am. I don't look like a hermit. I don't have long stringy hair or a bushy beard, and I'm not wearing ragged animal skins or sackcloth or anything like that. In fact, if you met me, you would not say to yourself, "Wow, who was that hermit guy?" You would say, "Wow, that was a fine chap with an understated elegance." Women would say, "Wow, he talked to me for five minutes and didn't once stare at my breasts. If he's married, his wife is exceptionally lucky."

But I see the same things everyday—same trees, same clouds, same hallucinations. Most hermits do. I don't really do much. I watch TV, make prank phone calls, and I look for dry places to sit, and sometimes I need to chase wild animals from my cave. I suppose that I do other things, too: I get up and pee in the middle of the night and then can't fall asleep again. I iron my socks and I sing falsetto. It's all routine really—I'm not that different. I'm just a hermit in a cave.