My mother asked me recently why I wasn't more social. I told her it was because I hate people.
She, the woman who enjoys teaching high school, who likes visiting people, who embarrassed us growing up because she would talk to strangers in line at the grocery store, did not get this.
Well, I am not even done with day two of a week that would guarantee me a unanimous verdict that people suck and a quarter of a way through a year that, if you put it in front of a more developed alien species years from now, they would never believe that people were the most advanced species because we are so blasted selfish that even single-celled organisms are more caring than we are.
And what's even more frustrating is that not four hours ago I was sitting at my desk writing a column about how, in spite of all the bad, there is so much more good, as we all saw in Boston after the explosions and I witnessed firsthand when I pulled into the packed parking lot of a church this morning to participate in a search for a missing girl. I was going to write about how people, just when I've lost my family in humanity, step in and fill that vessel.
Then, true to form, people stepped on my little grain of mustard seed-sized faith in people and crushed it.
I can't go into too much detail because, well, I have ethics. I really just wrote this post because I wanted to complain -- because I am so tired, all the time, of people being flaky and rude and demanding and insulting and selfish and dishonest and violent. I'm so tired of being tired all the time. I ran out of energy for this week on Monday afternoon. I have no idea how I'm going to cope with the rest of the week. No idea. (Liquor is out of the question.)
It should probably, however, involve kickboxing.
* On a funny note, story from the search today. It's raining/snowing and really cold and wet, and I'm picking my way through rocks and vegetation along the Provo River when I come across a syringe. I called the police and waited about 10 minutes until an officer met me there with gloves and the appropriate container to handle potentially disease-carrying drug paraphernalia. He slips down the river bank, gets to the syringe and pulls it out of the mud. It's a pen. I feel stupid. He insists he thought it was a syringe too until he saw the whole thing. I choose to believe that he meant it and that he's not just saying it to make me feel better.