It’s recently been pointed out to me that my notes have been a bit miasmic in tone of late–or, in layman’s terms, “A trip to the birthplace of Debbie Downer,” aka “Bummertown.”
Never one to intentionally bum out the small (yet very, very important) readership I’ve cultivated over the years (or as I like to call them: Janell, Nicole and Jorge from the cafeteria) I set about on a mental walkabout of sorts, hoping to examine the cause of my recent militant streak.
Unfortunately, my journey of introspection was shortly interrupted by a phone call from surgical ICU, an irate guest who didn’t know how to get to the family guest house, a snot-filled infant, and about five stat inpatient admits. At that moment, I was struck by a revelation. Maybe it’s not my mood that’s causing me to rant and deride the chewy–which is the opposite of tender– mercies of fate and all those other lurking variables which conspire to confound life. Maybe it’s more of a real estate issue. You know, “location, location, location”?
Now that I think about it, a lot of my recent postings have indeed been drafted from beneath the iron fist of “the Man,” like many other revolutionary diatribes throughout history. It would certainly explain my unintentional tone of oppression and my secret desire for a temporary state of anarchy… Hmm.
I suppose I should try to write posts on my day off from now on; when oppression is easier to ignore from a glorious distance, and freedom reigns supreme. Along with shopping, and doing laundry and other wonderful expressions of liberty and justice for all.
In time, there may come a day where the tyranny of the ten hour work day is a long distant memory, and shoes are optional all year round. In my darkest hours (usually between six and eleven) I dream of a world where slacks are a dirty word, and PTO is the only kind of PO there is! Though this might sound crazy, I choose to believe it could happen.
And there you have it, doubters. My uplifting, pleasant and totally non-incendiary thought of the day. You’re welcome.