Two years ago. I was walking through the desert, across the open playa in the early afternoon. It was hot, and I was very, very unhappy.
I don’t remember why, anymore, but I remember what that mood felt like. It would have been depression if I hadn’t been so angry, so resentful. I wanted to bite someone. I wanted to yell at someone. I wanted to punch you in the face. You, personally.
I think I was heading over to one of the Irish bars. I wanted to start a bar fight. Right now.
Out in the middle of the dust I saw four desks separated from a small line of people by a velvet rope. Three men were at the desks, and a fourth was behind a small podium managing the line.