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Wake up, Greg, you sound like a damp piece of toast.

Jesus Christ, kid, you’re writing to a 79-year-old about some morning water droplets like you’re storming Normandy.
Boo-hoo, your precious driveway’s getting a little moist.
You poor bastard.
How do you even survive the real tragedies of life, like a lukewarm cup of coffee or a grocery cart with a wobbly wheel?

Here’s some perspective for you, Sunshine:
If a sprinkler hitting your driveway is your biggest problem, you should be doing cartwheels in the street wearing nothing but a grin and a jockstrap.

You’re living in Tucson, for Christ’s sake.
The air is drier than a nun’s diary and you’re mad about extra water?!
That’s like getting stranded on a desert island and bitching because the rum’s not chilled.

You want to know if it’s worth saying something?
Sure.
March over there, bang on your neighbor’s door like a six-year-old who lost his balloon, and whine about your damp Honda.
See how fast you become the designated neighborhood bitch.

Or — and I’m just spitballing here —
you could grow a pair, close your goddamn window, park your car five feet left, and remember you’re not made of sugar.

Here’s the real secret, Greg:
Life will hit you with a hell of a lot worse than sprinkler mist.
It’s gonna piss on your plans, flood your dreams, and occasionally back over your nuts with a lawnmower.
You better toughen up now, before you find yourself crying into your breakfast about how the toaster didn’t pop fast enough.

This world doesn’t care if you get a little wet, a little bent, or a little broken.
It only cares whether you keep moving forward anyway — soggy shoes, wet socks, and all.

Now get off my brain,
Pops