"I owe, I owe, so off to work
The traffic still hadn't moved.
Singing the stupid bumper sticker like it was a TV jingle hadn't worked, apparently.
So I turn on the radio, snapping the knob like it's the source of my frustrations.
"BZZT! Singer Vic Chesnutt, sadly, has elected to end his life this past week, on Christmas Day. Chesnutt had mounting medical bills which he had despaired of ever getting free of, and friends of the talented and acclaimed singer-songwriter said . . . "
I shut it off.
I finished the sentence in my head: . . . said we're still living in the 19th century and are letting MD's in pharmaceutical companies take over where Freud left off — or rather, like he had never started. Those nutty orgone theories of Wilhelm Reich don't seem so crazy when you reflect upon the fact that the U.S. Government had him imprisoned and, ultimately, killed for it, so there must have been something there. Nonetheless, there'll all be the statistical inevitabilities with plenty of other things in their life to vouch, aloud, for their "meds" — the irony being the dwarfing-them percentages of Generation X who you never heard from aren't finding their voices at all, and you wouldn't know they were there unless you saw them posting on Usenet (they tend to be early-stage computer literate, and culturally savvy) or in psych wards with you.
The traffic moved forward an inch.
It wasn't much consolation, it wasn't much progress.
(see you . . . never again!)