A is for Antagonism

I like walking through the Evanston library in my snow pants. They swish and crackle brightly, and I get to rip open the slanted Velcro pocket to get my laminated hot pink library card out. What are they going to do, tell me to take my pants off? It's my one small revenge for the fact that in the entire Uinta County library system, there is not one book by Hunter S. Thompson.

Wang Chung's "Dance Hall Days" came on the local radio station in the City truck the other day, and T. insisted that it was a "Christian rock song" (he said this in a most condescending tone) by another group whose name he couldn't remember. It takes all my self control just not to smack him.

The pump house hatch was buried under two feet of snow this afternoon, and when I finally shoveled it out, the lock was frozen, and even when I got my key all the way in, it wouldn't turn. The hatch on the reservoir was sealed with a two-inch thick gasket of ice, and I couldn't break it loose, either.

The Super Bowl commercials weren't funny. I don't want to eat anything but peanut butter. I don't care if I'm late for work. I don't vacuum as often as I should. And I wonder if you can get worker's comp if you have a nervous breakdown because one of your coworkers is a complete imbecile.