Still mad as hell...

but at least there's this to keep me giggling.

Powder keg

Fury. Rage. Anger. Whatever you want to call it, I've been privy to it. Subject to it, is more like it. I don't know what it is that causes my insides to clench and my teeth to gnash like they do. I just don't know. The easy answer, of course, is my father. But I don't think that's it this time around. I wish it was, actually. At least that way I'd be aware of it and not one half-step away from turning someone's dental work into a pile of jagged, pulpy mess. At least. But in fact, I'm not. In fact, I'm so close to doing just that that I'm starting to scare myself. I'm angrier right now than I can remember. I want to hurt. Injur. Maim. Rip something apart so that I start to feel better about myself for at least a few seconds of the day. I want to scream and throttle something, feel the anger vent through my forearms and out through my cut knuckles and oozing finger tips. I want to subject someone to a simple fucking taste of what I'm going through right now. I'm sick of being everyone's best fucking friend and pretending that I could care less about the sheer dead-end of a job that I'm forced to work day in and day out with no recognition of my hard work or creativity whatsoever. I'm sick of everyone depending on me to somehow always be there for a quick favor or to complain to or bitch to.

Every time I go to the gym, I look at someone, anyone, and I think about pulling back and connecting my right hand with their nose, forcing a stream of blood and snot to erupt and cover the equipment in a gelatinous red splatter. Then maybe I'll kick them, forcing them to swallow a couple of teeth and shatter a rib or two.

Or perhaps they see me coming. And instead of me taking the upper hand, they deliver an uppercut to the corner of my lower jaw, and then send me to the rubber floor tiles. Then it's me trying to cover and protect myself. But I don't. Instead, they climb on top of me and, with their left hand, grab a hold of my collar and pull my head up, cock their right arm back behind their head, and force their fist into my eye socket. Slam. My nose splatters. My jaw cracks. My teeth fracture. But I continue to sit there, my hands forced at their side, smiling and knowing that with each blow, I've finally reached a place where I can be happy with myself.

Slammed

And not in a good way. Nope, no warm buzz has elevated my being or thinned my blood to the point where the world begins to look decent.

Far from it. I've worked from home every night after work for the past 10 days, plus a couple weekend days to top it off. Gasping. Wretching. Asphixiating.