untimely self-pity

January 16, 2012

I have chosen Martin Luther King, Jr. Day (unwittingly until just now) to complain of impatience. Or, even sissier than that, of boredom. Oh, Moses, shall we gather!

So let’s conclude (before we begin) that there will never be a Jonathan H. Scott day—“official” mid-week, or “observed” some Monday in December. No sculptor will ever ask me to tilt my chin a little more or quit grimacing for Pete’s sake. No clamoring throng will ever send hush-waves to the back of an auditorium heralding the commencement of my righteous address.

Now let’s begin. Oh, woe, woe, woe is today, is tomorrow, is all of eternity. I shall never walk straight again. Sigh. I shall forever count the hours, minutes, seconds until my next nap. Alas and woe and sigh.

When, Lord, will you set me in the sand so I can smoosh my own footprints. Moan. Oh, for sand between my toes, in the cleavage of my butt, irremovable from my scalp.

What shall I do today? I shall bathe for no public. I shall read for no retention. I shall eat for no metabolism. I shall nap. Within the hour . . . call it 55 minutes . . . and counting . . .

Woe, the quotidian ploddiness of this mighty oppression. You Red Sea, you muddy Jordan—segregate! Oh, let me pass this titanic trial of wishing I could play a little golf today but not being able to on account of all these woes I’ve been talking about and I bet I could mention a bunch more, I’m not gonna, but I could, you betcha I could, but I only got 53 minutes till my nap and first I gotta take a bath then I gotta read some, then lunch. Plus, yeah plus you gotta take into account that some family member might call with words of encouragement and support which could take, geez, all day maybe.

Oh, Aaron! Oh, Hur! Steady my arms! Oh Moses, Moses me. Sigh.