You are most likely unaware of how many problems you face, and that’s a big problem.

Poised at the brink of precipitous disaster, a man must pull back and consider taking the long way around or perhaps a bridge.

That which does not kill you probably left a trail of evidence and is fully prosecutable.

A scoped rifle and a clock tower will get you onto the evening news.

Fight for what you believe, and fail at it. Get up and try again. By the third time, reconsider your commitment to such a stupid idea.

Throughout history there have been moments like these when we must reflect on history.

Never open with a funny story. You’re not very good at it.

Unload the washer and transfer all of the clothes into the dryer. Medium heat for ninety minutes. Press the start button. Take that dog-eared poly-cotton blanket and make a little nest on the floor in front of the dryer. Sit on the blanket, with your back against the dryer door. Eat your supper.

I drive to IKEA.

I had Chick-fil-A for lunch.

Review your hardware-store shopping list. Arrange the items in two categories: things that must be fixed before they break something else, and parts for projects you will never start. Stop choosing tools based on whether you think they will outlast your span of years. Do not synthesize memories and likely scenarios as you did last time.

Pet the dog’s head. It’s such a small thing for you to do but means so much to him. Look at his cow eyes. He is able to see into your soul—or rather, he would if you had one. Say a few kind words to him. Something with the nice rising pitch at the end. It will make him so very happy, costs you nothing, and is a reasonable replacement for that absent soul.

Gaze into the bathroom mirror. Use a finger to etch your name on the steamy glass. Write at least ten other names: people you have not yet met, places you may visit someday. Shave your whiskers. Do it again to save time tomorrow. Part your hair the opposite way, so that you view yourself as others do. Use clippers to take it all down to the scalp. Now you can be anyone.

Make some decisions, the kind that move your life forward. How can you know if it is in a positive direction? Staying in one place is the same as losing ground. If you stay here you will die. This won’t happen suddenly; it takes about thirty years or so.

Go to bed. Lie there in suspension beneath the sheets. Space exists between you and the Egyptian cotton above, yet you leave no imprint below. Arise after six sleepless hours and reenter your waking dream. Walk away from the bed. It is as if you were never there.

Please disregard my recent emails. Forget about the phone messages, too. I know I sounded angry and excited, but I’ve had a chance to think things over and I don’t feel the same as I did when I said all of those hurtful words. I won’t apologize for the basis of my comments—I have a right to my own opinions, especially because they are correct—but regret your exposure to that barrage of toxicity. And the physical threats. You’ll notice I did not say “sorry.” That word is for the weak.

Now that I’ve cooled off it’s not difficult to reconstruct how I worked myself into such a snit. First of all, I’m very self-centered. Obsessed with myself, some say, and they are correct—although I couldn’t give two shits about their opinions anyway. Secondly, I tend to over-think. That’s right: while the rest of the world is under-thinking, I’m fretting and fussing over the smallest fucking details. Do I worry too much? You have no idea! No, seriously. You really don’t know.

The worst part is that I allowed my emotions to take control. There I was, ready to rain hellfire on your asses and the asses of your pets and children and as-of-now unborn children. Or shave all your body hair, make a pillow from the clippings, and lay down my head to dream about doing it all over again. Kind of a kick in the ass for all of you who dismissed me as some kind of passive robotic pedant. That’s MISTER Passive Robotic Pedant to you, dipshits.

The underlying truth is this: I was right the whole time; I knew I was right, and I should have just relaxed and luxuriated in the glow of my certitude. The rest of you can yammer and hiss and bark until you burst an artery, but seriously, your assertions are baseless and in fact worthy of derision instead of consideration.

In the absence of clear direction—this void of management, this vacuum of authority—I now and forever confer on myself the mantle of supreme leadership. Cast your eyes downward if you dare approach me. I am the exalted and deserving bearer of the secret flame.

I will say it one last time, incisively and cogently for all of you mouth-breathing fucktards who cannot read without moving your lips.

The toilet paper roll dispenses away from the wall, not towards the wall.

Can you possibly get that straight next time? I doubt it.

She is soft and smells nice. Talks on the phone all day. Makes your favorite meals without being asked. Throws your Maxim magazines on the floor when she’s angry with you. Is sad when an animal gets hurt. Loses your car keys. Asks your opinion and listens to your response as if it matters. There’s more.

That one time: the time you were an asshole and made her cry. You knew your words hurt her—her face never conceals emotion (another thing about her you cannot stand). Then she punched you right in the penis bone; a solid uppercut with a lot of follow through. She really put her knees and back into it. That’s when you remembered you hated her kickboxing classes and all of those softball games, too.

You are certain she has never understood the innermost you. She does not appreciate what you do for her—like making it possible for her to tell people she is with you. When you yell at her or mock her it’s not personal, you are simply sharing your feelings. Dumbass bitch.

She is self-conscious about her breasts. Too small, shaped funny, pointed towards the wrong compass points, whatever. What are you talking about, you’d say, they’re fine. Perfect. She consulted a plastic surgeon about a boob job. The doctor examined her, shook his head, buttoned up her shirt, and kissed her hand. Without speaking, he strode out of his office and never practiced again. She started wearing sweaters two sizes larger.

A year and a month ago, she walked down the limestone steps and past her car, and kept going up the street. You stood in the doorway and watched her until she turned on Hudson Avenue by the Walgreens. Lately you are starting to think she is not coming back. Her stuff is still all around the apartment, pretty much as she left it. You think it is, but you’re not sure. You don’t remember what is hers and what is yours.

The first week was not too bad. I was kind enough to welcome him into our little dysfunctional family. Show him how to do things and avoid the obvious rookie mistakes. He was slow to pick up departmental procedures and obstinate about what he thought he knew.

At what point did I stop trying to help him? It was when he took credit for projects that were not his own, compounded by a reluctance to admit he never knew what the fuck he was talking about. He couldn’t support an opinion or back up an assertion based on his own experience–Googling an answer was his method of showing how smart he was.

After a month of cringing in my cubicle while overhearing the constant phone conversations with his wife, I was finished with the guy. Listening to him alternate between bullying and wheedling her was more than I could bear.

“I can’t believe you spent that much. Are you stupid? You need to put it back in the account.”

But then ten seconds later,

“What do you want me to bring home for supper tonight, babe—KFC or Pizza Hut?”

His wife had inherited a lot of money. Because of it, she could play Nintendo all day and be home with their daughter. The trust fund was the only reason he could afford to work for low wages. I think the douche would have taken the job without being paid for it, just for an opportunity to act like a big shot.

The graphic artists and IT people downstairs were sitting ducks whenever he’d sidle in and start picking their brains—this, the guy who wouldn’t listen to anything job related. He’d sponge information about web design because he was setting up his own little site about Christian-centered parenting or home theater systems or jacking off or something.

I stopped talking to him, unless it was for work reasons. Even then, I did it as tersely as possible. I couldn’t understand how a rat bastard like him could sustain a career in such a demanding industry. Hell, the owner and half the managers adored this puffy little asshat. It added a completely new layer and texture to my de-motivation.

When I arrived at work on Tuesday and heard about his death, I felt very calm. His Saturn had been T-boned by a utility company service truck that ran a red light. He died instantly and I couldn’t even say the accident was his fault. I was secretly glad for the suddenly improved circumstances of his widow and fatherless child but doubted if they saw it that way. As far as I was concerned, though, he was rendered into pinkish goo and unable to continue dominating them.

Good, I thought. He’s dead. Now I can get on with my life.

Thanks, Jenny.

The entire series is pretty great/sad, especially Misery Bear: Dawn of the Ted.

The tags on the sidebar are even more penissy, as if that’s possible.

In my story, the truck will be parked in front of a frame bungalow that is painted gray by time. Or a Federal style house, its missing bricks resembling acne scars. The rain gutters have become flower boxes—weeds and ivy cascade over the greening metal. It’s not in the field of view, but behind the house a single sunflower bows its face over abandoned landscaping. The low picket fence around this garden lies flat in the myrtle. A Federal style house should work very well.

My story is going to need some sounds running in the background. Sure, there will be cicadas, but that’s not enough. A broken down yellow dog with a whitened muzzle is a good idea, although a little overdone. His snoring will provide a nice counterpoint to the rise and fall of the insects’ melody. If he awakens and barks, it’s a bonus. We might as well stimulate all the senses, even smell, so I suppose the dog’s infected ears and bad breath and flaking skin have a role to play, too. I will want some wildflowers and fresh-cut alfalfa.

I now have a place and the loose construction of a scene, but I can’t begin until I determine a time to go with the location. It’s not an early spring morning story, not at all. Not a humid, thunderstormy summer’s dusk one, either. The story is going to be really good, so it should start at the beginning of autumn, when for a couple of weeks the trees have been tired and changing to amber and tan but the afternoons still burn like an acetylene torch. The days grow shorter, though, and my story does not take place at night. I need to hurry.