SAME ANGRY, DIFFERENT ME

by Lisa

You are angry.  I see it before you open your face and let the woes out.

But.

No one cares about the contents of your safe but your nephew who has picked up a quiet drug habit while you’ve been assuming that you are king of your castle and probably the world based on your race, your self-proclaimed work ethic, and your gender. I’ll call you when he tries to sell your stuff to me. Our Government only wants you to pay your taxes and follow a few laws that have been agreed upon by people we all elected who are also well-connected.  The businessman in the White House isn’t getting anything done because he, too, must follow some of those laws even when the both of you feel they’re not fair.

Do you remember that there are checks and balances, no matter how loudly one shouts from the golf course?

No one cares about what you expected your life to be when you watched your mother and father play June and Ward. Maybe June was dying inside, and taught your sisters to expect something other that a warden for a husband.  No one gets divorced on a whim, not even in these depraved times.  Your sisters are not volunteering to do your laundry since you lost your wife because you are strong enough to lift the basket and turn the knob on the washing machine.

I’m sorry you lost your wife.  She was too young to die.

No one cares how hard you work for how little. You have years and years to live until you retire. I know that you thought your  job would get you a little more leisure, but sorry, the economy tanked a while back, and no one is exempt around here.  We all need hustle now, in addition to the timeclock.  I know that gas for that pretty half-ton truck and that zero-radius mower is kind of expensive, which is why I own neither. I know your grocery bill is higher than when your mom was doing the shopping, and food used to taste better.  Food tasted better when I was a kid, too, because we grew it in the back yard.

What’s growing in your yard?  Do you want a tomato?

No one wants your guns, unless you’re a verifiable threat to yourself or your family or your neighbors or your ex-girlfriend from 1997, that bitch who got a restraining order against you.  Whoops!  Now I understand that you’re one who will hurt me when you think I have something you want and that you deserve it more than I do.  You like that word, and you’ve used it too many times now. You are bigger than me and you have a funny look on your face as you say your piece.

I keep my hand on mine.