Hello, I’m an angry white yuppie who lives in the Silver Lake neighborhood of California. Recently it’s become nearly impossible for me to relax, due to the hardships I face every day. For instance, this afternoon I saw a young woman laden with bags of (I presume) disgusting vegan cuisine from Trader Joe’s trying to cross the street. In front of my sports utility vehicle, which had been trapped in the parking lot for over two minutes! And against the crosswalk! I rolled down my window and told her a thing or two, which made her cry, but I was not sure she’d learned her lesson, so I spat at her as I screeched away. Why do people think my time is so expendable? She’s lucky I didn’t run her down. I could have. I have a very good lawyer.

After turning out of the lot, I found myself behind a family of bicyclists with annoying little red flashing lights alerting me to the presence of their prehistoric two-wheelers. What’s that about? We live in a city. Roll down the windows of your Prius and enjoy the air that way, instead of slowing traffic. Exercise at the gym like the rest of the world. Do you think I have hours upon hours on a chilly Saturday to take in the sights as I roll down the street at 25 MPH? I’m a busy professional! I honked, which only spooked the family, and made one weedy adolescent take a spill onto the sidewalk. Luckily, this distracted the rest of the pack of idiots so I was able to save thirty seconds making my turn. But then, of course, more obstacles popped up like swarms of obnoxious fruit flies around my pristine margarita of a drive: here, a couple walking in aggravating happy ignorance with their scraggly Yorkshire terrier — I cannot tolerate those awful little dogs, so I threw litter in their faces as I passed; there, an insufficiently filled reservoir, ruining my view of what should be an abundance of water — can this city do nothing right?; and, finally, a little old lady pausing to take in the view at the top of the hill which is the site of my modern condominium. “Get out of my way!” I screamed. “Go somewhere else! This is my driveway! It isn’t your driveway! Go home to wherever you live, downtown or in some un-gentrified suburb!” She did not move, or take note of my yelling, which I knew probably meant she was deaf (the volume of my yell is very loud; I practice often). I gave her the finger and she feebly tottered away, after wasting another sixty seconds of my life.

When I arrived home, I unpacked my $14 ham sandwich to discover that they had only speckled the bread with like five capers. Five capers in a sandwich that really needs seven bites, at the very least. I threw it into the garbage where it belonged. I sat at a desk pretending to do work for that $14 and all I wanted was mouthfuls of capers. As if this day could get any more horrible, my espresso machine had not been cleaned by the maid in the manner I had explained to her upon her hiring, so when I went onto the veranda to enjoy the sunset, all I could taste was old froth residue, like a mouthful of dirty scum. Unforgivable. I phoned her cell and fired her, then called her names and insulted her mother. Of course, by this point the sun had dipped below the hills and I was left, with an empty stomach and hard heart, in the dark on a cold Adirondack chair. I thought about calling my sister Sally, but then I remembered that she was still sore at me for criticizing the placement of her hammock. I thought about calling my best friend Steven, but he wasn’t speaking at me due to the fact that I’d smashed a bottle of wine on his coffee table after he beat me at Scrabble in late 2010. I called my lawyer and shot the breeze for a while, asking after his daughter and pretending to give a damn about where she was going to college.

“UCLA,” responded my lawyer.

“Fuck the Bruins!” I yelled, because I hate the Bruins, and because my lawyer was unlikely to hang up on me, as he charges by the minute.

“We’re very happy for her,” my lawyer continued. “She wants to be a dancer.”

“That’s horrible,” I said truthfully, “You’ll never recoup your financial investment in her. She’ll probably grow up to wear palazzo pants and weave dreamcatchers in the desert.”

“I’m just about ready to fix dinner,” said my lawyer. “Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

I went through the list of people against whom I’ve been considering filing lawsuits, which took another ten minutes, and then let him go to tend to his stir fry. The rest of the evening stretched out before me like the big, bleak, vast San Fernando Valley. I’ve never been there (who has?), but I know it’s large and stretches out pretty far, because I looked at it once from a friend’s mansion on Mulholland before I realized I was far better than that, and stared back into my martini glass instead. Why was there no one left to call? Perhaps it was because I am such a busy professional that my lifestyle is intimidating to others, who seethe in jealousy when they hear about all of the $14 ham sandwiches I have eaten, and how nice my veranda is. Nobody will ever understand how difficult my life is. It is a burden I will carry with me forever, and very few people will ever be lucky enough to understand.