It starts out randomly. I have a heated political conversation with a neighbor in my parking lot. On my way to a gig, someone cuts me off on Route 2. Not only does Mass. License RS 6788 try to cause me great harm, he produces all the latest hand gestures to cement the deal. It was personal.
Then I arrive at the gig to support my friend in his pursuit of his life long endeavor. It doesn’t go well at first. He struggles. Though he pulls it out, we are white knuckled and nervous from the ordeal.
Rough night. I drive home with the radio off.
I get home to an idiotic e-mail from a certifiable dingbat on her side of the family. Chest tightens. I pound out a vitriolic missive while my doggies clamor nervously for attention. “I’ll show that bitch.” When I’m done, I wisely delete it. Catharsis complete, I rush my poop- filled kids down the stairs. It’s 11:00 pm. Late. I hyperventilate viciously on the back stairs, then I start my recount.
In a few sporadic episodes, I have determined that life isn’t so grand. In fact, it can be downright cruel. Brrrr. The covers have been ripped off and what I see ain’t pretty. What was I thinking? You can never relax your guard.
I add up all the events of the evening and quickly come to my conclusion: conspiracy.
What else could it be?
Everyone is surely out to get me. Look at all the random evidence, you honor. The guy in the parking lot. Ma. RS6788, my devastated friend, and my looney, soon-to-be-ex, in-law. Is there any doubt?
Introducing the Conspiracy Gene, although it needs no introduction. Aka the personal pile-on. We all have one and it’s a cunning little devil, ain’t it?