I hear the hum of the tires – buzz of the wings – on my Monday morning drive after a long weekend in a more pronounced way. The slight bumps in the road rattle my struggling car. The creaks and groans of the chassis remind me of my Great Grandmothers old folks home and the finality of all things. The alcohol and tryptophan have worn off long ago, and I only have the conversations, smells, and debauchery from the weekend to trip over.

I play a game of dodge the dumbass on the 40 miles of paved Americana I drive to my destination. Other drones on the road attempt to make my goal unattainable most mornings. The two hours per day I spend going to and from this place exist only in a vacuum.  The sun shows its morning glory behind the city skyline as I leave the comfort of the city.

A man with a soft but authoritative voice in the radio reminds me not to shake babies. I am reassured that there are two accidents on my route by a person called General Gridlock. I wish out loud for a quick death to this man and change the channel. Everything Is Gonna Be Alright by Bob Marley tries to hold and comfort me, but, instead, I only have more questions about how I will get by.

I the reflection of my monitor I see a man who spent the last 5 days I operating in the world of family and friends. It is a place of incredible complexity, but it’s comfortable and a nice break from the mundane corporate life. Now, as I tread lightly in real life, I long only to be on the couch watching teams of gigantic humans play a violent game that means only what I put into it. In that world nothing matters beyond the moment. It is safe there.

In the Suburban Thanksgiving, there isn’t anything at stake. There wasn’t anything defeating about fattening up on pumpkin pie or taking a shot of Wild Turkey. But here, at work, I buzz around in a world where I stare out the window wishing it was another holiday or just something – anything else.

It reminds me of a cell block from a Discovery Channel documentary where an enormous woman named Gina ran the place with an iron fist. She intimidated JoJo into giving her the top bunk. The tension was palpable and faux. The production made it seem like they could walk out at any moment and go to a better life.

The two main differences between that place and where I am today is my ability to wear gym shorts and grab a beer from my mini-fridge.

Oh, I almost forgot, I am getting paid for this. I am salary, writing shit on lunch, and eating leftover stuffing in my warm yet steril office. So, really, it’s not that bad. Gobble Gobble and Cheers to the Pseudo Happy Life! 🙂