I live, involuntarily, a "life of quiet desperation", due to miscalculations on my part, I admit.

For the love of Golf, I have settled in a resort community that hosts the best golf course in Texas, called Walden on Lake Conroe. In an era when Thoreauvian quotes are used to hype life insurance and stock portfolios, it may not seem like such an agonizing irony for a real-estate enterprise to adopt a namesake antithetical to its own ambitions, but it grieves me that the common inhabitants of my neighborhood so thoroughly reject the imputations of Henry David towards Nature, never mind their own souls. To avoid invective, I will simply observe that, aside from racism and misogyny, their main affliction seems to be some virulent form of presbyoptilepsy, which makes conversations I have with my neighbors difficult, as they try to focus on my face through their trifocals, groping to understand my unconventional attitudes.

I belong to an imaginary party, the Green Libertarians, so I am used to my votes being lost in the avalanche of conservative republican sentiment—these are the kind of Republicans that used to be Democrats before Hillary and Barbara became the fund-raising poster-children for both parties. But for that reason, election days upset me the way holidays upset the lonely. I do my citizen's duty, but I just want it over as fast as possible.

I voted early in the morning this year, after only one cup of coffee.

When I walked in, I heard them, whispering in glee, "Ooooh. We have a customer."

When I had showed my registration card, and signed by my name, the woman behind the "J-R" sign looked up brightly and asked, somewhat incongruously, "Do you have to know the poem to live on Woodchuck Road?"

"Huh?" I said.

"How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood!" Oh, she was pleased with herself, and she continued, "If I had to say that to live on Woodchuck I couldn't do it."

"Are you trying to deny me my vote?" I fumed.

"What do you mean making fun of where I live? You Mugwump!" I shouted.

"Where's the Precinct Captain? Where's the Precinct Captain?" I shouted, "I want to make a complaint!"

"Now, sir! Now, sir! What seems to be the problem?" said the designated placater.

"She's trying to intimidate me!" I shouted.

"She's made fun of where I live!" I shouted.

"She's preventing me from voting!"

"Now, sir. Now, Sir. She was just making conversation," he placated.

"If you don't quiet down, we'll have to call the constable."

"Where're the Poll Watchers? Where're the Poll Watchers? Call the constable for all I care!"

No, of course not, not really. I just glowered at her, swallowed my anger, cast my vote to the winds, and left.

I simply observe that we, if I may speak for all the great unwashed, cannot abide the multitudinous insults to our persons, already; we seethe, we are already on the boil, never mind the impending assaults on our liberties, our happiness, our economies.

About the Author: David Matthews studied literature at Baylor and Stephen F. Austin Universities. He has spent the 25 years since then as a computer consultant. The torturous irony of living a life of quiet desperation in a lake-side golf resort community in Texas named Walden has re-awakened his urge to write.