The power you're supplying. It's electrofying.

It happened so inconspicuously. One minute the garbage disposal was there. Next minute, it was a silent gaping hole in my sink. When I flipped the switch, the sink stayed mute.

Not good.

Down the street, in the distance where a jackhammer or other such machinery making a jackhammery kind of noise, rumbled against rock and pipe, it also - apparently - rumbled with an electrical line and won. No electricity.

This reality, this stark and frightening truth, hit me where it counted. In my hair dryer. It wasn't going to work. And, because of that, neither would my hair.

Then it hit me in the iron. Meaning a day wearing wrinkly clothes.
And hit me in the heater. Which meant a day of multiple layers of wrinkly clothes.
And the stove.
And the refrigerator.
And the computer.

Dear Father in Heaven, that meant the internet was down. No way to work. No way to produce. Suddenly, my silent house rang with...well...more silence. The clocks didn't tick. The vents didn't rattle. The indescribable and ignored hum of electrical appliances couldn't hum. And, therefore, I couldn't ignore them.

It was anarchy!

Showers were no longer hot. Cell phones no longer charged. A light bulb teased me from it's socket, mocking and leering but never lighting.

I couldn't go on like this. It was too much, too exhausting. Everything was suddenly...dead. I felt useless and impotent. After a long and tedious battle against the nothingness, I succumbed. And gave in to the inevitable future - a life of bad hair, wrinkles, freezing showers, and room-temperature soup. Was there really any reason to go on?

Then, like a trumpet from heaven, my house alarm beeped, the heater kicked on, and life resumed. Electricity was back. Oh the honey of it. Oh the rejoicing. It had been so long. It had gone on forever. Days. Years. A century, even. Or, according to my watch, roughly 40 minutes.

Merry Christmas PSO and all you PSO workers. I love you.

Life of Crime. The difficult years.

Is there really any easy way to make money? Of course there is. You steal it. Yes?

Here's how:
1. Get a gun.
2. Get a victim.
3. Put the two in the same space.

Tada! Easy money. Right? Well...not quite.

Meet Anthony Miranda. He had all the equipment necessary to succeed in his lifestyle of choice (already served time for several convictions and now, at the age of 24, back at it again).
Gun? Check. Victim? Check. Pointing said gun at chosen victim? Check. Choosing a victim who is an ultimate fighter? Priceless.

In the end, Miranda ended up looking like...well...that...along with accidentally shooting himself in the ankle. Where did he go wrong? Who knows. Maybe he never learned to share his Oreo's in Pre-K.

But here's his fatal flaw: he lives without expelling effort. Literally, none. Not only does he refuse to actually be a benefit, not only to society, but to himself by earning his money, he is a terrible judge of character. He refuses to even think. Let alone work. He prefers crime because it requires nothing.

Supposedly.

But does he now look like a guy who is taking the easier route?

Here's the bloody (oops, sorry Miranda) truth: Life takes work. Forget the easy way out. There isn't one. Forget doing as little as possible. What about doing more? What about giving it everything we've got? What about breaking a sweat? What about testing our physical/mental/courageous limits and finding none? Could there be a benefit in living with effort? Could it possibly bring us satisfaction? A sense of purpose? Self worth? Appreciation from our peers? Are we really cool with sacrificing our integrity simply because we're lazy?

Apparently Miranda is. Sadly, his choice is a poor one. And, though he isn't looking very happy now, it's unlikely the heathen will change anytime soon. First, before life will get better, he must accept the premise of true success. That it requires all of us, all from us. All that we have to give. To our fullest. Unabridged. Nothing held back. Until we sweat the exertion and collapse in our beds at night totally spent.

That, my friends, is real success. It's sweet and whole and peaceful.

So what can we learn from Miranda's butt beating? That life without effort is no life at all. Also, never pick on a guy with a mean uppercut.

Meanwhile, until Miranda values his honor, neither will we. Feel free to point and laugh.

Ahhhhahahahah!