Mr. Grumpy Pants Talks About His Feelings

We bought our home two years ago this August.  In January, 2009 we received a supplemental tax bill from the county assessor’s office.  I called our mortgage company and asked if this was something they took care of or me.  The person I spoke with at the time said they could take care of that, no problem.  I even vaguely recall faxing them a copy of the tax bill.  Here we are a year and a half later and I have a delinquency notice from the county assessor’s office.  Was the person I spoke with on the phone incompetent or did I merely dream the entire conversation and treat it as reality?  Well, that second option has never happened but the facts are a) there’s no way of proving either, and b) I owe two grand to the county.

Three years ago this news would have caused a full-blown hategasm, instead of what I’m currently feeling, which is frustrated resignation.  Intellectually, I recognize this as an improvement in how I deal with shitty news, but on a more visceral level, it just feels like impotency.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, fuck maturity, childish anger is so much more gratifying.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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