the secret

a few things have struck me over the past week: my boyfriend's fists, as well as the idea that maybe my life really is all it's cracked up to be. I spend so much time complaining, but what do I have but a whole potful of white-person-problems?

As a white, I had the misfortune of bringing a high-end-ish teakettle home from Target last night only to discover that its whistle is broken. Contrary to the popular song, a teapot does not "shout," a kettle does, only mine is neither a pot nor does it shout. Hence, the worst of both worlds, and if my blinding streak of laziness continues, the kettle will remain on my stove, instead of in the ever-competent hands of a Target employee staffing the returns counter.

This defeat, coupled with my boss's dog's gas problem, threatens to topple my deliberate life balance. Plus, the rash, which I'm convinced is a severe allergic reaction to having health insurance, or eating regular meals, planting an herb garden in my spare time, or maybe just to making far too much money. I have it so good that my skin needs to balance things out!

And yet, all of this is not to mention the tenebrous relationships with ex-boyfriends I seem to have, or an opaque jealousy of any other "artist" working in the same medium as I do!

I might enjoy an unwhistled cup of tea in my hardwood-floored apartment while I ponder the frustration of the very fact I exist. Care to join me, frenemies?