Monday, September 7, 2009
Sometimes my mom calls at really bad times. Often my mom calls at really bad times. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know. Unfortunately, I have lots of bad times. So she’s always playing against bad odds. She’s not into gambling and doesn’t revel in my misery. Circumstance has dealt her that hand, though, so she has to grapple with it. I do what I can to soften it. I feel badly. She doesn’t deserve to deal with me. She deserves an emotionally well-adjusted son who shares her values. She got me. My life is my own choice. I don’t blame anybody but myself for my discontent. My discontent just occasionally makes it hard for me to be talkative and buoyant. When I’m down, I’m down. I’m an artist suffering an affluent, consumerist, suburban American hell. I’ve got a good job as a web developer that makes me want to end my life and leaves me with inadequate time to paint and write. Writing code for a living dries me out. Then I have to come home and mow the yard that I never wanted. I wanted the house but not the yard. The yard came with it. Last year the yard was dead. It was magnificent. We got it treated and I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t expect the fertilizer to work. This year it’s green and thick and growing like mad. I long for it to be brown and flat again. Fuck grass. I only like the kind that I can smoke. So my mom calls one evening, and I’m telling her all this, omitting the smoking part. She suggests that I pay a lawn care service to come mow my lawn. I laugh so hard that I nearly drop the phone. She laughs too. I don’t know if she saw the same humor in it that I did, but at least she realized it was funny and we shared that moment.