Quiet desperation beats vocal frustration any day in my book. My book is rather thin at the moment, however, so your mileage may vary. Which is why I recommend properly inflated tires. And a hat. I should still be working, but I am waiting for the din above me to quiet. The boy-child is screaming in terror or pain, the girl-child screaming in rage. Stomping, pounding footsteps, bits of my calm slipping away in the swirl of angry emotions. Now would be a good time for a yell. Instead I sit in silence and try to count to three. Maybe it’s time for a beer break?
Jesus Carp on a crapsicle, I need to clean my office. I thought I’d get to it this weekend. Instead, I did something else. I’m not sure what at this point. Stayed up too late. Went out on the wrong night (yes, there is a wrong night and a right night for weekends in Spokane. Apparently the second-largest city in Washington can only afford decent night-life on Fridays). Didn’t finish putting up barbeque stuff. The screaming is done; the only sound now the tinny sound of Journey being played on the boy-child’s mp3 speakers. How sad that the modern-day ghetto-blaster is only four inches across. Sadder still is that it probably sounds better than anything back in my day. Fuck, that sounds like an old person comment, doesn’t it? Oh well — tomorrow I can spend the afternoon yelling at squirrels.
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