Take a Breath

Take a Breath

I've had to tell myself to "take a breath" about a hundred seventeen times over the past few days. It's a calming mechanism. It keeps me from going to prison.

Or at least from making a scene in a public place. Like where I'd start screaming profanities at the top of my lungs at the girl at the Post Office with the accent. The accent firmly entrenched somewhere in the Far East; the accent that did not come to America when her family and the rest of her body did; the accent that's been hiding on an island in the Pacific and thinks he's still fighting the war against the Allies; the accent that allows only 40% of what this girl's saying actually filter into my white, male, southern brain.

And she's not doing anything annoying. That's the worst part. If she was being a pain in the ass, then I'd at least have an excuse for pursuring the satisfaction of flipping the asshole switch and hurling a few obscenities.
But she's just trying to explain to the whole process of forwarding mail and whatnot.

And I'm the big dumb white guy who's not getting it.

No, it's not her fault. And I didn't yell. I'm actually not that much of an asshole. I realize that it's my fault that my big dumb ass is the one trying to get seventeen different things done in a space of about 12 minutes just because I'm too stupid to actually utilize forethought and foresight and actually working to plan things out. I'm the one with the temerity to get frustrated and surprised because there's a LINE AT THE POST OFFICE. I am the dumbest man in America.

Although, when the older gentleman in line in front of me decides to turn the decision of "which set of stamps do I buy" into a song and dance routine the likes of which Broadway's never seen, I came very close to stroking out. It made me smile when I thought to myself "I'm so angry my left side just went numb."

I did take a little bit of my frustration out on a particleboard bookshelf I was taking to the dumpster. You wrasslin fans know what a powerbomb is. Well, I powerbombed the hell out of that bookshelf. Sure, it was falling apart anyway. But I tend to think I broke it the best.

I did get good news. I've got a job over there in East TN. Not prestigious, but it beats having to hoof it looking for work. I'd have preferred not to do that two summers in a row.

So the world ain't shitting on me like I sometimes want to believe.

Unless this job I'm taking turns out to be the worst job ever. Then yes. Yes the world is shitting on my like I believe.

The good Lord plays subtle mindgames.

My name is Big Stupid Tommy. And I need one of you to buy me the Joe Schmo DVD set.