Honk.

You know,

It’s probably wrong on some karmic level, but it’s always good to keep in mind that there are people in the world whose lives are much, much worse than your own. It would be bad to derive all your satisfaction solely from schadenfreude, but maybe sometimes it’s OK to revel. Occasionally, it’s exactly the kind of cheering-up you need.

I’m a generally happy person. It’s my default state. I have moments of irritation or sadness, or, say, murderous rage, but for the most part, they’re isolated. Except for lately, but I’m pretty sure I’ll get over it with my strict, self-prescribed regimen of exercise, occasional sleep, and heavy drug abuse.

Luckily, I’m also quite aware of the few main causes for the recent change in disposition:

• Work.
  *Disclaimer: I really like getting paid a lot for what I do well. I really like my co-contractors. I just can’t handle sitting in an office 9 hours a day, now that I’ve had a taste of freedom**.

  **At the Como Zoo, there are these giraffes who are so understimulated in their tiny cement enclosure that they stand around licking the wall all day long. I understand them***.

  ***I don’t actually lick the wall, but I do go to the bathroom a lot just so I can take twenty steps away from my desk****.

  ****The boy at the coffeeshop had some well-thought-out advice: when you go to shoot up the office, wear your hockey mask there and back. But be sure to take it off while you’re actually shooting. Your victims need to know exactly who they’re dealing with*****.

  *****Disclaimer: I’m not actually going to shoot anyone. Reference (*) above. I like my co-contractors. Also, I hate prison.

• Saying what I think.
  Someone whose advice I generally rely heavily upon told me a while back that my problem is that I let bad situations go until they explode. This is fairly accurate, as I am nonconfrontational and prefer to avoid uncomfortable interpersonal relations. In an effort to maybe head things off, I agreed that I would make an effort to start telling people what I really think, as opposed to everyone’s favorite, telling them exactly what they want to hear.

  This has gone badly.

  I have a few theories about this, but they require more testing, and I’m sorry to say I’ve grown a little tired of this experiment. The current forerunner is:

  People don’t really give a fuck what you think.

  I’d be happy if you disproved it. Let me know how it goes.

• My schedule.
  I had to figure out how to alter the time-space continuum just to make the time to write this. But I did it, because writing it down is the healthier alternative to throwing things through windows.

The good news is that all of these things will change. Within 6 weeks, my contract will be up, and that will give me back 50+ hours of my life per week. And as far as saying what I think, well, yeah. Have I told you how much I love your new hair color?

Anyway, what I meant to say about schadenfreude is this: on a very regular basis, Bobbie’s car starts honking. The horn comes on, and it just sits in the driveway, beeping loudly, until she goes out and turns it off somehow. It’s always when it’s especially cold and especially late at night. Last night, she apparently wasn’t home, and some kids from the neighborhood went over and figured out how to shut it off after it went on for about 20 minutes. This morning, it did it again.

Man. I might be pissed off most of the time, but at least my car doesn’t have Tourette’s. That would be enough to make me want to end it.

Jenni