The Joy of Living: Starting the Day Wrong Is in Your Hands – The American Spectator | USA News and PoliticsThe American Spectator

This orange juice has the same acidity as a cheetah’s stomach while digesting another cheetah.

I can’t start the day like this.

The coffee burns. It burns a lot. The cup burns. Just touching it, I’ve lost the fingerprints on three fingers of my right hand. If someone decides to murder me now, the forensics team will have to identify me by my ID card. And after seeing that particular photo of my face, they’re just as likely to celebrate the murder instead of investigating it.

Someone’s filled in the crossword in the bar’s newspaper. And they did it wrong. The capital of Sweden isn’t “stockings” but “Stockholm.” And in Spain, the highest authority isn’t “Daddy Yankee” but “King of Spain.” And they just won’t shut up.

The ladies on the terrace won’t shut up. One says things like “tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.” The other replies, “tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.” A third joins in, saying, “By the way, tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.” The waiter brings their tea and pastries and chimes in, “Excuse me, ladies, the tea. Tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.” The whole terrace stands up and erupts in a chaotic chant: “tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.”

Ah, the rich variety of globalized conversation. It could be even more tedious. At least they’re not talking about tariffs.

The timid ray of sun piercing the trees brings me no solace. In the distance, the monotonous drill of traffic. The coffee’s still scalding. And there’s a cyclist arguing with a sports car driver at the light: “Big car, small brain!” My head’s going to explode if they keep yelling. The car guy shouts even louder at the cyclist: “Big brain, small car!” Any moment now, they’ll quote Nietzsche right before throwing punches. Nihilists don’t believe in anything anymore.

A young woman, glued to TikTok, crosses the terrace in a trance and crashes into my table. I saw it coming when she aimed her damned torpedoes at the military base of my latte. “Watch where you’re going!” I should say, but she’s wearing neon headphones the size of a space shuttle. It’d be easier to hold a séance and yell at her ancestors than talk to her. Anyway, she’s already vanished down the boulevard. She’s limping slightly. I’m not happy about it, but I’m not wasting any tears either.

Eight-oh-five. A bold, cheerful little bird sings from atop a streetlamp. They must’ve promised it a pension.

As a writer, I feel more and more like a sparrow. Whistle, fly, and lay eggs. The street cleaners no longer sweep the sidewalks at night but at dawn. The city breeze loses its charm when there’s a guy blasting a pressure hose three feet away. He’s yelling at the guy with the other hose. They’re saying something like, “Tariffs, tariffs, sheriffs.”

The sidewalk’s spotless. Can’t say the same for my suit. I should stuff it in a bag and send it to the mayor so she can foot the dry-cleaning bill. The coffee’s now too cold.

The waiter won’t come to take my payment. He’s decided it’s more important to audit the bar’s last century of receipts than to look up and grab my bill fluttering on the counter. Orphaned and alone. I’ll be late for work. I don’t know who to blame. I can’t start the day like this, and I can feel Jordan Peterson breathing down my neck telling me to stop whining, quit looking for scapegoats, and make my damn bed.

I light a cigarette. My last act of rebellion against postmodernism. I scan the end of the promenade. I look at the sky, and it’s pleasant. I close the newspaper. Today could be a great day.

A crowd approaches from the opposite direction, blocking the avenue. They’re chanting slogans. They’re hurling insults through a megaphone with impeccable diction. They’re yelling way too much. I hate the right to protest with all my soul.

I stop walking.

They’re closing in, shrinking my space. I rummage through my jacket pockets for a paracetamol. My pounding headache might have something to do with last night’s rum-fueled happiness. The blister pack’s empty.

The noisy crowd advances with their crude far-left slogans. I consider lifting a manhole cover with my teeth and getting to my office via the sewers. But rats squeal too. I rule it out.

My watch tells me I’ll be late if I don’t start running now. I look ahead. I take a deep breath and, with determination, stay perfectly still.

The waiter yells at me for leaving without paying. I shrug. The protesters set off firecrackers and bang pots. The shock gives the bird on the streetlamp a heart attack, and its lifeless body plummets into one of the ladies’ teacups. Outraged, she interrupts the discussion, abruptly changing the topic: “Tariffs, tariffs, tariffs.” Everyone nods.

I loathe the dull, uncritical public discourse that dominates 2025. Eight-ten. I remain motionless, at breakneck speed. Today could be a good day. The sky’s pretty. I’ll walk into the meeting late but quoting some wild, sociopathic line from H.L. Mencken.

Life is for those who take risks.

READ MORE from Itxu Díaz:

Looking Back to Where the Sky Silences Us

When the Days of Love Begin

Diary Entry for a Perfect Spring Day