Listen:

It was the loveliest day out—the sun was shining brilliantly, but not too brilliantly to make it uncomfortably hot, and the weatherman informed me that this evening was supposed to be slightly overcast with a hint of rain, but as of yet, there was none of the stickiness that heralded a muggy afternoon.

It was just an all-around nice day.

On this nicest of days, I made the grave mistake of wandering into town as I am wont to do on days like this when the sun is shining so high in the sky. My house is within walking distance of downtown, and the walk is ever so lovely—half of the way is shady, covered by a roof of trees, and the rest is right in the sun. I used to go running down this road every morning, but I got out of the habit of it.

It being such a day, downtown was milling with people—short, tall, young, old, fat, skinny, mothers, fathers, old crones, and everything in between. I hesitate to tell you, dear reader, that I live in a posh kind of town—surrounded by yuppies, so many yuppies, the angle-walking, uppity, holier-than-thou kind; my town is virtually an enormous, living, breathing Republican convention.

I am not like them.

Yes, I voted for George W. Bush, but I am not an extension of the mindless horde suffocating me. But I live.

With a gathering of slightly foreboding clouds far, far away in the sky, I meandered into town, mingling with the horde and window-shopping. The shops down here were far too expensive for me—only the rich could shop here for their two-hundred-dollar jeans. But I do enjoy looking.

About noon, I stopped into one of the local cafés, hoping to grab a coffee and a pastry. The café was not too badly packed, but there was a fair amount of people filling up half of the tables. I stepped into line behind two older men and waited, mulling over the menu. The turkey Panini looked favorable, but I had my eyes on the pastry shelf. Blueberry bagels, banana nut muffins, glazed donuts, ah! a chocolate chip cookie the size of my face. Perfect.

The conversation of an older woman and her daughter sitting at a table behind me drifted over to my ears.

“Would you like lemon with your Perrier, mom?”

Listlessly: “No.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No.”

“Would you like to try a sip of my coffee?”

Wait, let me guess: “No.”

“Do you need anything at all, mom?”

“No.”

A baby wailed at the back of the café. Its mother sternly ordered it to keep quiet, but the baby’s ceaseless wailing worsened, piercing the very brain matter in my skull and puncturing broken remnants of my soul.

Please, I pleaded, could you stop the noise. I’m trying to get some rest.

The baby resorted to softly sniffling and giving her mother the cold shoulder—a definite improvement. And then it began the wailing once more, stopped, wailed, waited for the mother to feel like she was good at nurturing her child, then screamed.

“God, all these unborn chicken voices,” I whispered cynically to no one in particular.

The old man in front turned and scowled at me for being so rude—a baby is a wonderful miracle, don’t-cha-know.

The woman working the café was clearly incompetent, to boot. I had been standing for nearly five minutes, and there was still the one man left in front of me.

Finally, the old fop made his order and sidled over to the “Pick-Up Order” side of the counter. The woman greeted me with a weary smile and a strained “What can I do for you today, sir?”

“Just one of those cookies and… a regular coffee, room for cream and sugar.”

“Pike Place or Gold Rush?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well—“ the worker expounded in great length as to what the difference between these two coffees were. From what I gathered from her explanation, she could have simply told me that Pike Place was mildly strong and Gold Rush was somewhere between mild and bold.

I ordered the latter and stepped over to the side, accidently mashing the foot of that scowling old man whose scowl suddenly intensified like a sun going supernova.

I muttered a half-hearted apology and, grumbling, stood behind him. More lines.

“What’s that!” exclaimed a pretentious snob of a girl behind me, pointing at some dessert or another.

I may be paranoid, but not an android. I can feel emotions, including—but not limited to—rage, love, and despair. Right now I was feeling paranoia and simple, utter hatred for these pathetic humans.

The child was steadily wailing in the background, and the pretentious snob exclaimed the same question again but to a slice of chocolate-chocolate chip cake. She was clearly illiterate, because the sign at the base of the plate notified the ogler of this very fact.

Again: “What’s that!”

I may be paranoid, but not an android. It seemed to be becoming my mantra for the moment.

I was losing my mind, spiraling into insanity.

I grabbed my coffee and cookie as they were handed to me and found an empty table as far from these interplanetary demons as possible.

Yet another yuppie entered.

“When I am king,” he explained to his sniveling companion. “You will be first against the wall, with your opinion which is of no consequence at all.”

The wailing had become an unfettering drone for the moment. The girl who had been behind me stupidly ogling the desserts sat at the table next to me with her friend. She was an ugly thing, dressed up in her ambition and Gucci purse.

“Kicking and squealing,” I whispered, narrating how I would drag her to my basement where I would kill her, “you Gucci little piggy.”

She screamed and jumped at the yuppie who had entered a moment ago. The bemused glance on his face gave him away.

“You don’t remember?” she asked. “Why don’t you remember my name?

“Off with his head, man!” she joked.

“Oh!” Familiarity glittered in his eyes and replaced bemusement. “Sherry!”

“I guess he does,” she answered her own question and chit-chatted frivolously.

Outside, the weathermen summoned the rain. It splashed on the sidewalk, splattered on the shop windows, trickled down the gutters.

Can’t sleep, too much screaming.

I was losing it—fast. I took a huge gulp of my coffee, forgetting it was hot, and set fire to my throat. Panic ensued as I kicked and swung, knocking the intensifying liquid away in a frenzy of pain. It exploded against the wall opposite me.

“That’s it, sir,” said a hand on my arm. “You’re leaving.”

I was ushered outside, away from the crackle of pigskin, the dust and the screaming. And then I was alone with the whole of the heavens reigning down on me from a great height.

Those yuppies networking with their Macs and their pointless driveling Facebook lives. It was enough to make me vomit. I may be paranoid, but not an android. I turned my face skyward, letting the cool rain wash away the panic, the vomitous filth.

I looked back into the café at the yuppies I hated so bitterly.

God loves his children.

I trudged back home through the rain.

God loves his children, yeah.