So Bush wins, leaving me to worry about which metaphor to use to describe him and his role in history. But then I think, hmmm, maybe metaphor is too bold, too concrete. Maybe a simile will suffice. Metaphor’s weaker sibling. Is Bush cancer, or is Bush like cancer? Or maybe it’s rust? I’m just not sure. The list of possibilities goes on and on, so you can see just what this reelection has done to me. I have serious concerns.
Instead of just being able to go through my meaningless motions each day, thinking of nothing in particular, I am now faced with the increasingly annoying task of thinking of him and still having to go through the meaningless motions. I have to think about the things that he does and the things that he says. I hear his twisting of the language in my head and the echo of his idiot’s laugh. I cannot escape his blank, watery-eyed stare. Bush has been reelected, for whatever reason, and now I am constantly thinking about not only what he has done to the world, but what he will do. It’s enough to make a guy stop whatever he’s doing, no matter how menial, and look around. Bush, I’m afraid, is going to get me into trouble.
But mostly, I’m now thinking all the time about how to express all these worries. Which words do I use? How do I describe all these feelings? But I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Maybe I should even be thankful. I’ve always thought one of America’s best, upper-middle class benefits was the luxury given us to sit around, worrying about everything. And I’ll admit, I’ve enjoyed it. It’s given me the great illusion that I am part of something big, something important. Worrying gives me the feeling that I can make a difference; that if I worry enough, I will suddenly say something intuitive and new. Yes, I like worrying very much. Worrying, I’m sure, is the fence that divides upper-middle class from middle class, and, god forbid, the lower class. But don’t be confused, I’m not talking about the simple, everyday worries of food and shelter and clothes for the kids. I’m not talking about that fence.
But I suppose I should begin worrying about my luxury to worry, while I have the chance. I suppose in time, even that luxury will be taken away from me and replaced by something else. But what replaces the luxury of worrying? Pain? Suffering? Hunger? Unending repression? Religious intolerance? I’m not quite sure.
But you can bet I’m worrying about it, even as you read this. I’m worrying and searching for the right words. It’s quite the dilemma.