Or maybe that's too much violence, I don't know. I have so much anger, and like my other feelings it is cumulative. This one is to do with unawareness of others and I know that, but it feels so deliberate, it feels like "I know you're there but I can't be bothered to be courteous" and so wanting to call attention to my existence seems hopeless, because a blindered horse is not helped by being startled, and the fact that these blinders are self-imposed means nothing. So I curl my fingernails into my palms, spare the rod, and wish instead that you will be ignored, utterly ignored as you're ignoring me, but that it will be something that counts. Yes, you there hugging the ticket punch so that nobody can use it, you with your dirty look when I ask you to step aside so I can stamp my ticket: I am ready to hope your heart gets horribly broken if it will teach you a little empathy. Failing that, I will hope the door closes on your fingers if it will teach you the courtesy of holding it open for others.
When Squire was born I thought he was the most amazing thing on the planet, and then when he got to be about a year old I couldn't BELIEVE I had thought that, because obviously one was so much more interesting and fun. It's been like that pretty much every year since.
This afternoon I was telling him the marvelous story of how I memorized the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and recited the first bit to show how awesome I continue to be at storing all kinds of things in the brain pan. He said it sounded to him a lot like Tom Waits and went on to demonstrate how Waits would sing about sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.
In short: still the most amazing thing on the planet to me. So lucky to live with him. Let's all remember this at the end of the month when grades come out: somebody who can sing Tom Waits parodies is almost certainly more fun to live with than someone with a good grade in physics.
Listen, I'm sorry I don't like you at all. But I feed you with food I make with my own sweet hands, and I brush you and buy you periodic toys and change your litter box. The reason I am not letting you out on the balcony in this sweet sunny weather is because last time you JUMPED. So it is for your own good. I suggest you try the INDOOR sunbeams. And please stop complaining or I might actually let you out there again, you toothless self-defenestrating idiot.
Dear Dog Owners in My Building,
I don't like my cat. I HATE your dogs. Please shut them up. Please please please. Or would you like to show them the balcony, maybe?
Dear Phone Company,
Why are we still talking when we broke up over 6 months ago? I have been nice up until now but I swear I will get violent soon. I'm an American. Have you heard about "going postal"? Imagine what I might do to your more modern form of communication.
Dear Travel Company Start-Up,
No, copying text is not the same as writing copy. I hope the Lonely Planet sues you into oblivion. Sorry for refusing to be complicit but it turns out I do have some inflexible morals, and signing off as an editor on something that was stolen remains one of them.
Dear Angels at My Table Last Night,
Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. Don't forget to tip your waiter.
Dear Drunk Man at the Neighboring Table,
No. And ew.
I love you and I'm sorry for not taking care of you. I really am.
I miss you. I'm sorry we don't hang out as much as we used to. I'm sorry for taking it so personally that you haven't been around as much. I guess we've drifted apart; maybe even these sorts of relationships have a shelf life, and the best thing to do is just hold the chin up (easier now, now without ballast) and move on. I'll always remember our good times back when we were closer, and I promise to always be grateful when you stop by, however briefly. Ungrateful, traitorous... oh, I'm just kidding. You know I love you.