Suddenly you’re envisioning the adorable puppy roasting over a spit fire and watching the weatherwoman’s dyed hair dissipate, leaving her bald and screeching her humiliation in front of the camera.
That’s right. It’s The Mood.
Beware, dear people, this is not something to be taken lightly, no-one is immune to its influence. It seems to sit at the end of every colour spectrum, stoic and without compromise.
The morning commute becomes a nightmare of knuckle-dragging simpletons without enough neurons between them to make a decent primate.
The man in the sleek black sports car is back, taking up your lane while juggling a steaming cup of morning coffee, his cell phone and the briefcase he keeps fishing things out of. What in the world? Is he on auto pilot?
Let’s not forget your favourite soccer mum shuffling her children, her neighbour’s children and some vagrant who snuck into her prerequisite minivan. She’s not paying attention either, singing and wobbling along with the radio while Junior and his buddies fling a ball that flies out of the open window and crashes into your windshield. What are they doing? Why is the window down? It’s bloody winter for goodness sake.
All you can see is the shine of the steel melting into the greys of the city. Haggard steps leading to tired looking buildings that paraded unclean pavements, the smell of salt air infused with greasy takeout and instant coffee, the pot-holed tarmac, impatient hooting of old tilted taxis, stranded passengers and pedestrians merging together to create an oscillating concerto of confusion.
That’s where I found myself today – deep in the clutches of this nasty frame of mind. I was to over everything to even fake a smile as I went around my daily grind at the lovely cube farm.
The first call of the day was from an egotistical jerk who took immense pleasure in reminding me that I was here to serve him. Oh, I’d like to serve him all right, a nice glass of Chianti topped with nori flakes. But I did my job, saying in a voice oozing saccharine, “That’s what I’m here for, sir. I’ll be happy to take care of whatever issues you have. Now what may I do for you?”
With a Universal Translator the caller might have heard, “Yeah, let me take care of the problems you caused because you can’t figure out how to fill out the same paper work you’ve been filing for the last twenty-two years. I’ll fix your drink up with some arsenic. Would you like it straight up or on the rocks?”
The rest of the day progressed in the same manner. Everyone it seemed was ticked off at the world and me in particular because I was foolish enough to take their calls. An hour and several handfuls of hair later, I headed into the peak of the storm. I wish I was talking about the weather. A heavy thundershower turning the lifeless buildings into zinc as great trampling hissing sheets of rain advanced slowly across them, sounded alright in retrospect.
I was fed up with the day, with the job, with the people around me and the world in general. It took time and a great deal of personal restraint to make it to the main road.
And let me tell you, dear reader, there isn’t enough chocolate ice cream in all of Sydney to make a day like this go away. Or cure The Mood once it sets in.
