My brain’s the burger and my heart’s the coal
An extreme driving maneuver in rush hour traffic, causing the guy in the rusty pickup truck to honk his horn. I can see him gesturing wildly in the rearview mirror, pointing his finger at me as we come to a red light. “Are you fuckin’ stupid or something?” he wants to know, holding his head from the window of his truck and cursing at a level that well exceeds the volume of my own radio. I do not know how to react to this situation, do not have the ability to convey the importance of my whereabouts in ten minutes, and just stare straight ahead until the light changes. Minutes later, I am alarmed when I notice the same rattling pickup truck following closely behind, and flags of palpable danger emerge when I enter my neighborhood and realize the truck still following behind. This person’s dedication to letting me know what’s what is clearly impressive. I pull up in front of my house, as the driver of the pickup pulls along side of me, leering at me from his vehicle, as he clenches a cigarette between his teeth. “—Oh, hey: sorry, guy,” I casually produce, getting out of my car. “What the fuck?” he wants to know, which seems to be a general inquiry into my reputedly horrible driving. I notice my neighbors in the immediate vicinity pricking up their ears, and casting an eye in my direction. Oh, great, I think: as if my everyday behaviors weren’t sufficient validation of the fact that my life is a total wreck, this incident is going to send things over the edge. A leaflet will be produced, and I will be run out of the neighborhood, as has been coming for a while now. “Well, I did not see you,” I explain to the indignant driver, who seems unwilling to demonstrate any magnanimity today. “Well, fuck you,” he bluntly recites to my face before pulling off at top speed. Did he really just follow me all the way to my house to tell me this? I wonder. Intend to fight me right there in the street? That would have been pretty funny, I have to admit. Snatched from the jaws of a broken jaw. Plus one for me.

Ambling forth, through the day. I really have very few worries right now, and that makes me worried. Something must be wrong, having nothing wrong. I need something, I realize. A plan—a lobotomy, actually. Something. All I can do is take my dog around on walks and contemplate chipmunks and squirrels and things. I really am becoming horribly middle-aged, and the fledgling beard is definitely not helping matters. My grandmother tells me about a job opportunity she heard about today. $13.50 an hour for unloading trucks at the Pepsi distributing plant. There’s even room for advancement, she says. "It seems a little repetitious," I end up telling her, trailing off. “–And I just cannot support the corrosion of childrens’ teeth,” I say. It seems wrong to me. Coercion? she says. “—Uh, yeah,” I say, whatever. I keep thinking that I’m going to be hit by some falling debris. Or a long range nuclear weapon is going to absolve me from any and all responsibility in my life. It’s not a sound way to live, but then, have you read the paper recently? Either that, or I’ll just continue in my trend of nearly getting pummeled in some ludicrous street fight. Either way, really.