Frustrated . . .

What. A. Week this is shaping up to be.

I feel a baby made by Nick Nolte's mugshot and the floor mats AFTER people take their shoes off at LAX with colic, a diaper rash, and teeth coming in all at the same time. While on a road trip. With adoptive parents (my biological parents can't actually care for me) that listen to and sing along with "Photograph" by Nickelback. Loudly. And an older sibling that is a 3 year old kid that likes to stick Legos where they don't belong. In the summer. With the air-conditioning on the fritz. And a dookie in my diaper.

What is wrong with me? Who really cares! Let's just say that there comes a point in every middle-aged, middle class, obese, balding, white man's life when he wants to have a little control back. He just wants to feel back in charge. He wants to be less frustrated (I'll let Ray Romano explain frustrated to you . . . because he'll be far less vivid in words, tone, and volume).

But here's the thing . . . it will all be fine. I KNOW it will. Soon. It is all manageable stuff and, like any good domino set up it just needs one tap of the forefinger or one more no-attention paying muhfuggah to back up in to it, bump it, set things in motion and not apologize or even take responsibility.

Why? Because that's the beauty of frustrations. They dissipate. They resolve. They get swallowed up by happiness or further angst. They seem trivial and self-perpetuated and eventually you can have a good laugh over them. Once you get all those dominoes picked up and put away. Unless you step on them, barefooted, first.

Oh man - I'm making this worse.