Monday, June 14, 2004

viriliter agite

There are days I just want to pick up the nearest heavy object, back up and run to gain momentum, jump as high as I can, then smash the object into the face of the jackass of the day.

I feel like one of Claremont's hounds, sniffing out the mutants before I lunge for the kill.

See? I am sadly more viscious than a friend who would opt for a Vanishing Ray. I want to see blood and gore, brains leaking out of shattered skulls, eyeballs pulped by pressure, teeth scattered around the ground like a snapped necklace.

My patience has barely improved with age, though my mind does try to set up barriers and other distractions to get me to listen to my own advice and think and consider blah blah. I'm the guy in the cliche that prays: "God, give me patience and give it now".

But some days I just want to let go.

And tragically, this is one of the emotions I cannot sublimate in writing. Because anger is shrill and whiny and too self-centered to be of interest.


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