FUNKY JIM

Jim apologizes for pissing you off. He realizes that you were right. But he was half-way out the door, and he still had that self-righteous anger where one's adrenaline convinces one of his righteousness, and once those hormones start to base-line again and contrition sets in. But at the time of pissing you off, Jim didn't give a shit about this shit. He felt 100% right and you totally wrong, and anger gives one this zero-sum calculus, and when the anger subsides, this shifts so that one starts to realize one's responsibility for the upset, and then sometimes, as it was for Jim, the zero-sum thing veers in the opposite direction. Besides, as far as arguments go, it was pretty picayune. Jim doesn't even want to bother you by going into the details.
Right now, he is sitting in his living room, looking at the wall and feeling sorry for himself. Poor Jim. Poor fucking Jim.
Outside a bird chirps. Jim sucks at identifying birds by their songs, He can identify a cardinal, and that's about it. Oh yeah: and a turkey, but big deal: any asshole can identify a turkey's gobble. Does this make me an asshole? he wonders.
It was late afternoon and the gathering madness that he felt at this time gathered its strength as dusk would fall and night would followed dusk inevitably and inexorably and as it darkened so would Jim's stumbling mood, the nightly lurching torrent and it would be like a storm on a cloudless day. What does that last thing mean, thought Jim.