TWO WEEKS LATER ...

It's two weeks after a crushing, snow/ice storm hit my area. Contrary to what the bureaucrats first claimed, no plowing was done. No salt was spewed. The side streets remain neglected, with only minor melting occurring, as record-low temperatures prolong the agitating process. 

I've made phone calls to City Hall and the State House, expressing my angst and frustration (demanding a little help is all), but have been told, in the usual, babbling fashion, that I'm overreacting, that most citizens aren't even employed in my downtrodden sector, so there's no need for a prioritized cleanup to get vehicles on the road. (And yet I ask, what of the school busses? When will they run again, or is the State fine with kids lounging at home as they did during COVID? Silence ensues ...)

The thing is, some of us do, indeed, need to travel in my subjugated realm and for significant distances that would be hard to accomplish by foot. We're required to occupy our places of employment, no matter what. Also, some of us have doctors' appointments or must tend to family members who do, but that doesn't seem a concern of our "elected" despots. 

The meteorology mystics now foresee another storm approaching, maybe worse than the one before. I can only image how horrible it'll be, piled atop the prevailing, frozen monstrosity.

If worse comes to worse, I'll try to dig more paths to initiate my journeys, as lazy residents peer from their windows, anxious to critique my lackluster gains. I'll likely hear from the same rationalizing neighbor about her adolescent Potterhead, who could help, except that he's a sensitive sort whose feelings would be hurt if asked to raise a shovel. (Ah, what I wouldn't give to live near a rough, resilient Ringer!)

It's the same ol' nonsense again and again, and so I'll keep forking over my taxes to get nothing in return. I'll push myself to the physical extreme, attaining the same tired, dissatisfying results, because, well, I'm the indurated type who deserves (and welcomes) such strife. 

Yeah, it's all so grand and righteous here in snow-bound Jersey. Oh, well, perhaps I'll move away some day to a respectful place where diligence and responsibility are revered, but until that desired escape, I'll have to lean on my old, behavioral standby and gripe, gripe, gripe.