Someone's terrible problem

When I'm not feeling well, everything is tainted. I'd better start with that qualification. 

It's the week before Christmas in New England at 6o degrees and it feels more like May. 

"Wooo!" exclaims the biker with his feet splayed out to both sides. 

Yeah, "Wooo," I'm thinking. 

"Wooo" as in: Gee, I'm Having A Blast ?

Or "Wooo" as in: Here Come the Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse ?

There's a man and a woman gesticulating as though possessed and screaming at one another in a gas station parking lot. It costs me nearly 40 bucks to fill the tank. Inflation. Suffocation.

The moon is blurred by clouds as the sun starts to sink. I'm thinking that I don't want to say that it's been a long time since I felt much for Christmas, because that's not entirely true, but I am more than a little sick of the repetition of seasonal marketing, a little more than sick of riding this wheel. 

I was dreaming in a chair today. It was a work dream. Someone's terrible problem.