To the lurching yappy meat puppet in the office across the hall, whom I’ll call “Dick” though it’s not the name on the door that you refuse to close while you’re hollering into your bluetooth growth like a big buttery dolt: tomorrow I’m going fishing, to a place full of water and chrome where this mocking clock has no meaning, with good company and good whiskey and fire. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while, but first there were the home repairs that got put off all summer, and a deadline, and then a foot of snow, and then Halloween and an election. But now suddenly they’re past, so I’m kinda keyed up you see.
Now normally when you heave into view and begin your noise about your bike, or shooting woodchucks, the two things that your pachinko machine of a brain has identified as our common interests (woodchucks? really?), I’m able to zone march straight to my happy place. That’s right, those nods and uh-huhs are about bright water and forest smells and was that a rise right there? Caddis? Even when you’re not talking to me, you’re still talking, Dick, and your HARF HARF laugh operates on some hellish frequency that penetrates walls and headphones. But I’m normally happy to just crank the volume and forget you and the oxygen you’re using. We’re good.
But today there’s a bluebird summery day blasting through the windows and my happy fishing brain place is making me want to chew my arms off, so I can’t go there, and I’m left with nothing for you but thoughts of twisting your head off like an apple stem, shoving your darling little espresso glass in your mouth and then kicking the whole mess into a steel garbage can with an oh-so-satisfying crash and rattle. And then rolling it down a hill in front of a speeding bus. A burning bus full of angry hungry bears. Shut up, this is my happy place, not yours.
Your soul is an old dirty bug jar,