I have a problem. The wife says it well: “I worry about you as you get older. I worry you’re becoming an angry old man.”
Again, I have a problem.
We moved to Southern California. Orange County, to be exact. It’s gorgeous here. Great house. We’ve met nice people. Beaches nearby. I have a dream life—writing books, kicking back, picking up my kids from school.
And yet, all I can see are sprinklers. And car washes. Water flowing down the sidewalk. More water flowing down the sidewalk.
I want to strangle people.
Then strangle them again.
California is in the worst drought in state history. It’s really, really, really bad—and nobody here gives a shit. Nobody. And. There’s. Nothing. I. Can. Really. Do. About. It. I’m washing my dishes in the sink instead of running the dishwasher. I don’t flush with every pee. We don’t have real grass, so there are no sprinklers, and I haven’t touched the car’s dusty exterior.
But, wait, that’s not the point. The point is—I feel this unquenchable need to punch someone in the fucking face, while quoting Public Enemy. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy was a number one jam/Damn if I say it you can slap me right here.” And I’m not that person. I’m not. I love life. Love my kids. The wife. I don’t want to be an angry person. Not now, not in the future.
But I am angry.
But I don’t want to be angry.
But the drought.
But the beautiful weather.
I don’t want to become the person who thinks nothing of problems, and just goes through life smiling and indifferently sprinkling away.
And yet, I sorta need to be.
