This morning, I got into a knock-down-drag-out fight with my four-year-old. It started small—"NO!"— and ended up with me dragging a garbage can into the kitchen and throwing away toys, one after another, until he saw that he was, indeed, not the one in charge.
Then I had an editor go ballistic on me because they basically hired me to report a story in the middle of a natural disaster. I don't want to get into too much detail, but it was like the lesser equivalent of going to Haiti right now to report on the brick-making business. Just a bad, impossible, stupid, rudderless idea. So he's pissed, and I'm pissed because I've poured enough time into this story that I'll earn about $3 an hour and it still stinks.
And then I just read that J.D. Salinger died. Now, I'm no Catcher in the Rye fanatic, but I suspect like a lot of boys, I read it at the perfect moment, when I was most open to its nihilism. I read it on the train to Chicago, traveling alone and still a teenager myself. I completely related to Holden Caulfield.
So there it is. One. Crap. Day.
When does Happy Hour start again?