Damien Galeone

The -ist that connects squarely with my chin is holding the tattered end o- a shoelace. And it belongs to me. I grit my teeth and go about the relacing ritual, inching the lace out and measuring the slack needed to create an adequate pair o- laces with which to tie my shoe. -inally, a-ter two misjudgments and a misthread I have two two-inch laces. I -eel like Gulliver trying to tie one o- the gi-t boxes that Jokey Smur- is always leaving his blue compatriots.

I put on my other shoe and give mysel- the shoelace-gripping right hook that karma has been dying to deliver. And, once again, my neighbors are treated to another impromptu lesson on the creative vulgarities o- English.

As I step out the door and drill my elbow into the metal knob, I decide with a cool head and absolutely no embarrassing swearing that today the world is going to end. On top o- it all, I need to write a paper -or school and guess which -ucking letter on my -ucking keyboard is broken?

Nothing that happens this morning -ills me with optimism -or the upcoming day. I start the rainy ten-minute walk to the metro and, to de-lect my attention -rom the hole in my shoe, meditate on my anger. Although I grumble, I am not volatile – I am not going to open -ire anywhere or enter into a (one-sided) murder suicide pact with the cat. But sometimes these things build up and it’s as though the big Dog upstairs is seeing how –ar He can push me be-ore I go to a mall with a bag o- Doritos and a shotgun.

I am not insensitive to perspective and when I plop down at my computer the internet is loaded with that. I su–er minor irritations, but I am not homeless, I have my health, I don’t know any creationists and I don’t live in Juarez, Mexico. So i- the worst I have to deal with is a 5 a.m. Heimlich maneuver -rom the cat and accidentally showering with my socks on, then that’s OK, I suppose. Perspective is strained, however, when my tram ride is accompanied by a couple per-orming sloppy, audible tonsillectomies on each other at 7:30 a.m.

7:30 a.m. the next morning challenges its unhappy predecessor in its misery when my neighbors begin drilling into the wall that connects my bedroom to their bathroom.

-ucking bastards.

Question o- the day is a philosophical one – How do I torture my neighbors?