Wednesday, August 9, 2006

out of my face

Here's a little secret.
Anger's my drug of choice.
Anger, the fine cold cutting kind, that leaves blood in your mouth and a burn in your chest. The kind that sets jagged edges around you with little warning signals to the wise. The kind that means "sharp". The kind that itches knife edges. The kind that will lash out at the least opportunity and slash anything in its path, regardless of whoever or whatever else is in the way. The kind that's a trip all its own.
I've been a hothead all my life, but lately I've learnt to keep a tight rein on my temper. I believe in second chances, I really do. It's a motto I've lived by for a while now.
There's a slight problem, though, as there is with all good intentions. You see, anger is tasty. It grabs you. It gets your adrenaline up and your bile pumping and suddenly you're so alive it's almost scary. Of course, your brain stops working for just that little split second of time, but it's a small price to pay for the way it makes you feel, isn't it? Isn't it?
I really cannot say. I came home in a fuming fury at someone (there was a great big beautiful moon in the sky tonight and all it did was tease a hate, a great throbbing hate for a lot of other disconnected random inconsequential things; yes, hate is a strong word, but sometimes it does the clenched fist and reminds you in spite of yellow satellites behind grey heavy clouds), and then I turned around and resolved it with all the patience and tact I could muster. And now I'm no longer mad, only slightly disappointed.
The sad thing is that I'm disappointed only because I couldn't hold onto that anger for a little while longer. Angry that I lost that fabulous feeling of power, that edginess that real bitchiness gives you.
Not in the mood.

And here am I unangered again. I do that somehow. I'm growing sober. It is almost a tragedy.

P.S. Here's another little secret. Post-anger is not a pleasant time of life.
Withdrawal is ugly.

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