It’s been one of those days; don’t you hate them. I had to go to a doctor’s appointment this morning, so I decided to make a run by the “convenience center.” That’s what they call that asinine place where we have to take our trash and diligently sorted recyclables. I’m not sure, but I think I threw a bag of trash in the bottles and cans bin and a bag of bottles and cans in the dumpster. Oops! With my luck, they’ll trace it and the garbage police will come kick my door down. Why is everything so complicated today? Bottles and cans, paper, florescent bulbs, used oil, electronics, plastics, cardboard and trash. It’s like sorting mail. I didn’t take the cardboard today; that’s a whole other area of the inconvenient convenience center. Plus I would have to cut down all the boxes and then take them and stack ‘em in a trailer that is too short for a Munchkin (I hit my head every time, not to mention, soil my hat). Nope, no cardboard today, it can stay in the stupid garage until I feel like dealing with that hassle.
But I had to out, so I put on a fake happy face, shook hands, complimented people that should be complimented, joked with the doctor and nurse, smiled and pretended to be that other, more likable David, while the whole time I was steaming; mad at the world and irked by everyone and everything. No, I’m not pissed about anything in particular; it is just one of those days. See, I am harboring a low-grade purposeless anger and illogical discontent like some systemic infection in my blood. I hate days like this; actually come to think of it, today I hate everything, but that is my point. Oh, yeah, and my pretty, petite, but very pregnant doctor lady says she wants me to come back again in a week (for the co-pay, I’m sure -- they are trying to bankrupt me) and since my digestive track is finally back in order, she wants me on another course of antibiotics. Oh goody!
I really don’t feel like working today, but then again I am pretty sure I will want to eat next week. I am still suffering the financial recession brought on by my recent marital schism. If I don’t work, I won’t earn money; if I don’t have money, I can’t buy food. Speaking of food, I have no appetite or desire to cook. That is odd for me; food is an important part of that other David’s life. He doesn’t eat; he dines. Everything has to be some elaborate production; meals are an art form. His culinary background and experience makes him that way. On a day like this, however, you might even catch me eating a can of Campbell’s soup or a frozen pizza, but please don’t tell him.
Well, I see the morning fog has lifted; the sun is shining; it is pleasantly warm and dry with a hint of spring. That should make anyone happy; right? Pshaw, I’d rather sit in a dark room and listen to that annoying music on the radio. Oh, trust me, I have tried every station, it is all crap today; the only thing worse is listening to the tinnitus in my right ear. It is just one of those days.
Don’t worry, if we bump into one another on the street, talk on the phone, or exchange emails, I promise to be cordial and nice. I was raised that way. Sure, I am angry, sure, I am completely discontent with everything David today, but I can’t show it. That is not permitted. Maybe I should write about it as some kind of self-indulgent psychotherapy, but then I would have to ask, “Why are you reading this crap? Don’t you have anything better to do than peruse the ramblings of an old writer who’s in a foul mood?”