American Shithole #18 — Moving and the Traveling Salesman
I’d love to spare some time this week for Trump’s on-again, off-again (just kiss him already!) love affair with Li’l Kim, or the 1,475 missing migrant children lost due to inhumane policy changes at the DOJ, or whatever else tops the news from now until Thursday in the maelstrom of bile and garbage that is Washington, but I’ve been distracted by my own triumvirate — a difficult household move, an incompetent painting crew, and a door-to-door salesman whose life must’ve depended on selling just one more security package.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?