Tired
By H.G. Miller
You know, this used to be easy.
I’d sit down at the keyboard, think about whatever was pissing me off that day and write about 800 words around that subject, occasionally veering off course in delightful tangents that had little connection to anything.
These days, it seems that what pisses me off just makes me tired.
I’m tired of complaining about the mind-numbing nothingness that is my workday. There are people who lug bricks around for a living and they’d kick my ass for complaining about a desk job. Maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps brick luggers are an enlightened sort who can see how staring at a computer screen all day long and managing client expectations about logo sizes on half-page newspaper ads in tiny metros like Chico, California just doesn’t stimulate the mind in a healthy way.
I’m tired of reading about the partisan bickering in Washington D.C. I’ve accepted that I lean to the left and will never understand the Christian Right’s steadfast refusal to give gays a fair shake in society. That abortion will always be what’s debated, because discussing birth control with kids is just too fucking logical. That this ‘war’ on terror is about as effective as the ‘war’ on drugs and just as misguided.
I’m tired of hearing the same songs on the radio. Tired already of the Jack-whatever promotions pretending they’re a rebel music station when I know of five other cities that run the exact same advertising for the exact same format, and probably use the exact same play list. “We play what we want” my ass.
I’m tired of eating the same thing for lunch everyday. Knowing that when I eat healthy, I get nauseas. Knowing that the foods I enjoy most make me feel the worst.
I’m tired of watching lights flicker on the dashboard of my car. The thing won’t die, and my fiscal frugalness won’t allow me to chuck it for something newer.
I’m tired of the mountain of debt I keep getting reminded of with the monthly bills. A clerical error at the bank sent me to collection and I’m getting tired of trying to convince the credit people that I’m not some shiftless drifter who never plans on being in the black again.
I’m tired of being tired and angry. Tired of the bad drivers, and the inconsiderate pedestrians, and the rude checkers at the grocery store, and the button that sticks on the elevator at work, and the smell of the paint in the hallway at my apartment, and the terrible parking job the old lady does next to my car every night, and the scratches on my hands from a playful kitten in the morning, and the popping sounds my knees make every time I stand up.
I’m tired of being too lazy to write something entertaining and settling for something bitter.