Theme Song of the Rage Monkeys

This is not a poem. It's just a series of statements set up to look like a poem. I do not write poetry.

Today sucked.
It was hot.
It was humid.
People died.
Everyone was angry.

The plumbers were supposed to come this morning.
Instead of putting on the shorts and tank I would have normally worn to keep less-hot, I stayed in pants and a shirt.
They didn't show up until almost four.
The water heater is broken beyond repair.
To tell us this, it cost money.

We drove to get a new water heater.
It was even hotter than before.
We were both angry, sad, upset, frantic.
We are tired of feeling like this.
We have no way out, not right now.

He went inside to get it.
I waited outside because I am too fat to waddle through the stores.
It was so hot and I was so emotional.
I cried.
I wondered why we stay alive.
I wondered if it would always be like this.
I reasoned that if this stress will not end, why bother?
What is the point?

He came outside with the new water heater.
It cost a lot of money.
It was heavy and awkward.
He called for me to help him.
I burned my feet on the pavement.
He hurt his shoulder.

We were too tired to still be angry.
I was too tired to feel or function.
He is worn out, aching, spent from emotion.
We drive home, numb.

Tomorrow, we will wait for the plumbers.
It will be hot and I will be in hot clothes.
It will cost more money for them to install it.

And I worry . . .
I worry that the new water heater will somehow not work.
I worry it will be installed incorrectly.
I worry that it will cost more money than we have.
I worry that this won't end.
I worry that nothing will go right.
I worry that there will be more stress, more anger, more ranting.

I am tired. I am tired. I am tired.

I still am not sure this is worth it. I still am not sure.