The trouble is that I'm angry. That's the trouble. In case you were wondering. I'm always planning to write a thing or two down, but I've been having a problem with this giant seething pile of tooth-gnashing, tail-lashing, cold-eyes-of-the-sociopath rage. Nothing wrong with that, you might think. A bit of good righteous anger can make for fine reading. A perspicuous and witty teardown of the global whatever. Or some satisfyingly hysterical ad hominem, perhaps. FUCK YOU, FUCKFACE has a kind of gritty assonance. A pithy consonance. A little effing alliteration. Plus "fuckface" is inherently funny, like pratfalls or right-wing tabloids. A goodie from my childhood was "dickweed". I must revive this tasty epithet.
But no, sadly, my anger takes the unattractive form of being shrill and bereaved, loud with the nauseating rising cadence of the thwarted entitlement complex, drenched with the aggravating resignation of the hard-done-by, the stompy-footedness of the It's Not Fair brigade. Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you, heart disease. Fuck you, death, and your today, tomorrow, forever. Fuck you, vindictive petty power players whose agendas serve only your tiny dick fiefdoms at the price of the heart's blood of others. Fuck you, money, and your thoughtless control of everything. Fuck you, emotional infants with intimacy issues so pervasive that the burnt tang of your combined neediness and pathologically maintained distance hangs on my clothes long after you are gone. Fuck you, rusty chicken-wire cage of identity politics tearing and scratching at our hands while those on the outside assure us repeatedly that it isn't there.
But tomorrow, the tail-lashing beast goes into pit where we point and laugh at it. I'm going to tell you a story about San Francisco, and pencils, and an opera singer at the airport. I promise.