THE MOST IRRITABLE MAN IN AMERICA

Or so I would have to describe myself, at least today. In the mail was a broadly comic short story I sent out ages ago--I had forgotten it was still under consideration by anyone. (A slap from the past, from an editor who does not appreciate broadly comic stories.) Also was a BIG BOX that I had to chase down the mailman for--and which I did not have time to open since I had an appointment to go and get yelled at by my physician. It wasn't that I am now officially too fat to weigh in on the office scale--it was my goddamn blood sugar, and the fact that I couldn't be bothered to take decent care of myself. What with waiting in the office and the haranguing we didn't get away until about six, too late to get a table at any of the restarants that we would have preferred--I was already in a seriously foul mood. IHOP was okay, but coming home and opening the BIG BOX turned out to be the crowning disappointment--a large font (it types HUGE) Remington typewriter with a piece of the frame broken off in transit. I swore at Sue as she made all sorts of helpful suggestions and tried to console me. (I then remembered I had to fix the washer in the upstairs bathtub.) After two hours of sulking, I answered a forwarded joke email from my friend Alex with a bitter, uncalled-for diatribe. I then alternately screamed at and apologized to Sue. Right now I am listening to WQXR, trying to lower my blood pressure.

I know there are people in this world who have real problems such as the kid who is dying of leukemia at age 22 (the real reason for my doctor's outburst at me today, as it turns out)--but everyone is his own hell. I am thankful not to be bleeding in the street, but I just kind of wish at least one thing (the typewriter) would have gone right today. That would have made up for all else.