Misdeeds of the Misguided

I am angry. I have reached and maintained a level of frustration that was once only obtainable by quaffing large quantities of whiskey. It is no secret to anyone that has graced these pages to know that I am unhappy with some aspects of my life, namely, where I live and where I work.

I have let them stir and boil inside me for too long. I have grown querulous, splenetic, and pugnacious, finding myself in an increasingly number of contretemps. I use big words to hide the fact that I have become a jackass. More so. Or perhaps I am only expressing it that much clearer.

I suppose it is foolish to complain of what is wrong rather than rejoice for what is right. Surely, I am a lucky man. I have two beautiful boys. I own a home. I have two great dogs. We have cats. I am not in debt beyond my means, though my means grow smaller by the day—by the minute.

Am I angry because I want more for my family? Of course. And I am angrier still that I am unable to provide it. Perhaps I am also angry because I will be older, in the official sense, next week. It is not the number that depresses me, but rather the list of unchecked and unmet accomplishments that I have always planned on conquering. They too, meaning the absence of them, add to the sequacious tones that narrate my ramblings and routines.

I punched a hole in the closet door today. It was over nothing—one of the trivial molehills that spawns a mountain in that moment where enough is, apparently, enough. It was the proverbial last straw.

My oldest son was standing in the room. He witnessed my flicker of rage without batting an eye. His only concern was that I had put a hole in the door. He followed me into the bathroom and spoke to me in soft sweet whispers, reiterating his disapproval. He kissed my swollen hand, ignoring the blood that spread across it. I cleaned my wounds of stupidity and covered them with bandages. That was enough for him. They were forgotten. I placed a Miles Davis poster over the hole in the closet. Again that was sufficient. It was healed.

He is innocent and young, and he is far wiser than I may ever be. He doesn’t care for the trappings of growing older and letting it all run away from you. He cares only for what he knows, and that is all he knows. The only problems he need face can be met with kisses and band-aids, and the occasional Miles Davis poster. Other than that it is only happiness.

I am more the jackass than I thought.

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