Indignation. On this rainy Portland day, I coldly welcome indignation into my heart, embracing the Law of Attraction, the Theorem of Fat Lazy Asses, and the Fucking Distorted Postulate of Pricks in order to justify my outrage at whatever crosses my path.
As I navigate the morass of leaves left soaked and rotting on the sidewalks and streets of Portland, I’ll take umbrage at the inability of home and business owners to actually pick up the leaves rather than blow them around the parking lots and sidewalks with noisy gas-powered leaf blowers at seven in the morning.
Then I’ll make my way to an overpriced conglomeration of a coffee shop so I can express my outrage at being served a grande soy macchiato with low fat and extra foam instead of a grande soy macchiato with no fat and low foam.
I’ll belittle the barista who barely scrapes together enough of a paycheck during her long hours at the coffee shop to pay for her addiction to caffeine in addition to the other stimulants that keep her over-perkified throughout her shifts.
After an hour of stewing in my own mental filth, I’ll shift my displeasure to the homeless urchins who squander their lives sitting on the sidewalks in front of the courthouse and library, begging for money with cute signs that are meant to bring a tear to my eye and a dollar from my wallet.
Once I realize that they won’t, as I often suggest, “Get a job,” I’ll try out my annoyance at the trendy big chain clothing store where men’s dress shirts are now only available with a breast pocket, as if I were some sort of smoker or engineer. I don’t work out every day so that my bulging pectorals are hidden behind the sagging fabric of a pocket waiting for its protector.
By the end of the day, after a trip to the supermarket before the big game, visiting the movie theater on a day when no one wants to be outside, and riding public transportation on a Sunday, my irritation will spread beyond my prostate and intestines to thoroughly infuse the bulging artery on the side of my temple that beats rhythmically with the muscles of my clenched jaw.
I’ll try to forget this aggravation by watching a movie at home, but I’ll remember that my DVD’s didn’t come in the mail yesterday and I’ll be forced to walk three blocks to the supermarket to rent a tired Hollywood blockbuster from the little red machine with the line of ten people eager to avoid interacting with others at the real video rental store.
My hope is that this indignation will propel me through my week and give me a common bond with all the Americans who perfected their exasperation long ago.
But the reality is that I’ll soon get tired of my disgruntlement and return to being the placid, semi-comatose television-craving automaton that earned me my right to vote, but not the right to smoke illicit drugs or keep twenty-two cats in my over-priced studio apartment.