Neurotic, Provoked, and of Child-Bearing Age

House_fire_using_gasoline

The unfortunate thing about getting angry is that the angry part doesn’t last nearly as long as the sad, awkward, sorry part afterwards.

The laws of physics aren’t conducive to really having a good fit. I mean, if I spend five seconds punching the window through which I have just seen a kid deface my mailbox, I’ll have to spend five hours or more driving to the hospital to fix up my bloody hand.

Watching that glass rain down, hearing that clattering crash that vibrates my bones like the chords of Hades calling all the hot blood down into my solar plexus region – so sweet, so worth it… but it would be better if it could all be in slow motion, and we could speed up the traffic and the Taylor Swift being the only thing on the radio with her sweet voice ruining the aftertaste of that bloody, misty rain of glass diamonds… and maybe we can skip over the hospital scene altogether, because who wants to watch a movie about someone sitting and waiting and filling out papers? Let alone the part where I have to come back home with my hand wrapped in gauze and sweep up the glass and worry about how much a new window might cost…

No words that could pass my lips are rotten enough to cleanse my brain of the horrid, putrid, worse-than-sulfuric-mayonnaise scent of this indescribable thing that is kicking inside my brain like a monstrous fetus impatient to grace the world with the slime and muck that come out of a digestive system with no compassion.

I could throw the whole dictionary, and all the dictionaries of all the languages in the world, off the edge of the earth and let the words bounce back off the cell wall of the universe and still I would feel nothing when they hit me in the face again: “ugly,” “hatred,” “dreadful…” like trying to bring down a mammoth with a squirt gun.

And after I say these words (and worse ones I won’t name), I’ll have to spend much longer with a bar of soap in my mouth than the glorious five seconds it took to taste the screams cascading up my throat like a reverse milkshake and pouring out like blood to drown you, me, everyone in this stupid room. I never liked the color of that upholstery anyway to tell you the truth.

After careful analysis, my conclusion is that anger, like a solar eclipse or a high b-flat at the end of a hymn, is tragically short-lived. It must be savored to its full intensity within the five seconds in which it courses through the blood stronger than love – and then we must put it to rest and find other distractions. At least, until they fix the window and the delivery truck brings another dictionary, at which point you never know what might happen…

Galena_Ghost_Town_(19790167479)

Image credits in order of appearance:

By Kpahor (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

By BLM Nevada (Galena Ghost Town) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

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