“he’s just so confrontational.” sighs another.
“what’s to be done?” laments a third.
“well, it’s obvious we must do something. perhaps an intervention?” suggests his _________, without crossing the _______/patient confidentiality line.
“is there a cure? i didn’t realize that there was any help for this, this disease,” whispers his _________ eerily from the great beyond. (yes, they’re psychic too.)
“you know, we could blame you, after all you were the one that set him on this path of self-___________,” retorted the _________.
“you have a lot of room to talk, mister, why i’ve half a mind to give you a good spanking. except why should i give you the pleasure?” the ghost of his _______ rejoins.
“people, people, please. let’s not turn this into a blame game,” says his most ardent admirer, “we’re here to solve the problem of his constant posting of photos of flowers–it’s really just too too much to bear; to watch him suffer so, the constant photo-taking at the slightest sight of a bloom, the time spent adjusting and manipulating the photograph afterwards, his posting of the images hither and yon; it’s all quite out of hand.”
“short of taking his camera and his phone from him what are we to do? aren’t you afraid that he might crack if he were to quit cold turkey? that we might not ever have our dear, dear friend robert, as we know and love him now, back again?” cried an online acquaintance who had, up ’til now, remained quiet, standing at the back of the crowd. [author’s note: the use of the word ‘crowd’, of course, is wish-fulfillment at its most pathetic. mea culpa.]
“there may be nothing we can do, really,” said a more reasoned voice, “shouldn’t we just let him do as he pleases? what harm is there in his sharing the beauty he sees around him, after all? i think you’re all quite silly. let’s take a watch-and-wait attitude and enjoy what he gives us without questioning his motives or his sanity.”
everyone concurred, sipped their coffees, picked up their bags, and went on about their lives.