Mondays are stupid sometimes
Didn’t intend to have a crummy day, but that’s just how it worked out. Some days are like that. They pick up momentum, and there’s one little thing that happens that alters the trajectory toward the corner pocket courtesy of a random eight ball, or hurtling into the gutter, or whatever your metaphor du jour may be.
Me? Woke up late, even though I’d gone to bed early the night before. Got to work and all the parking places on the side of the building were taken, and I had to park up front, directly across from where one of the bosses was showing off his new 600+ h.p. muscle car. D’oh. But that was okay; where things went south was mid-morning, when I breathed in and suddenly noticed a stabbing pain in my lung, and then pretty much felt like a compost heap for the rest of the day.
I try to dissect the particulars of whatever is coming up as the day goes along, because I know that it’s possible to turn a day around at any point if you set your mind to it. But my throat was mildly sore, and my temper was unusually short, and it became almost comical how really little things were pissing me off completely.
So then, a spot check using an acronym: Hungry? No; ate taco truck tacos just before noon. Angry? Yeah, more than mildly butthurt that my horizontal intimacies with women have slowed beyond a crawl to a complete halt since the demise of my marriage over five years ago, and rattled that I can’t find a fan base for my music while certain people seem to get booked once a week in this town and jizzed all over by the so-called music critics who took my place when I more or less got pushed out of the writing game by circumstances and opportunistic competitors. Lonely? Well, yeah. Who doesn’t want to love and give love in return? Probably my biggest saudade right now. Tired? Yep. Got home and slumbered for an hour and a half, and I’m still a bit janky.
So here I sit in a neighborhood cafe, looking at a very cute and nerdy couple on what appears to be their first date, discussing what they like and don’t like and what they want from a relationship. I feel like I’ve stumbled into one of those indie movies made by the son or daughter of somebody involved in the entertainment business, who’s got a leg up in the industry by virtue of the Lucky Sperm Club. The date appears to be going well. They like each other!
And now Nora Ephron is dead, and Dick Cheney still walks the earth. —Jackson Griffith