I’ve spent two weeks writing the entry below, and it’s excellence is reflected in the fortnight of effort poured into it. Actually, I just banged it out today. I was out of my home for another week, as Wife forbade me to sleep in our place while the painters finished their thing, citing "my health" as a reason. As if. I’m gonna try to get back on a regular schedule. No promises, not that you were seeking any.
Having a child reveals a parents’ true nature, for good and bad. I daresay that Baby has exposed to the harsh light of marriage my temper.
Oh, I knew I could get pissed off, have for years. But I lived under the delusion that it was limited to certain things, including (but not limited to) computer malfunctions, my sports teams’ meltdowns, and the cast of criminals currently running the White House.
The added stress of sleep deprivation and sleep deprivation and sleep deprivation, not to mention a year of battling bed bugs and bed bugs and bed bugs has brought to light the fact that small things can get me enraged to the point that I must summon every iota of control in my being not to scream, "Fucking asshole!", for instance, at the contractor who managed to leave dents in the baseboard after we paid him an amount of cash equivalent to the GDP of a small Eastern European nation.
Like happiness or sorrow, anger comes in different flavors and degrees, and it is a certain type of anger that has been motivation since my career as an Angry Young Man started two decades ago.
My anger is the self-righteous kind, which, like all sorts of anger, will eat one alive if one doesn’t let it pass. For instance, there was a girl I fancied in college, and I thought I had the perfect opportunity to get a little closer to her when she, myself, and some friends went out one Saturday evening. As we got liquored up in a bar that was less-than-diligent in checking ID, one of the group decided it would be an awesome idea to go to a midnight showing of "Purple Rain."
Mad enough to write
Up until then, I had been carrying on a nice conversation with the lass who I wanted to meet. And I would have been perfectly happy to keep talking with her in the bar, or go dancing, or escort her home and find my way into her arms. But no. Everybody decided that "Purple Rain" would be a much better thing to do than me getting laid, or at least the .001 percent possibilty of me getting laid.
To skip my protests and the subsequent coversation, the group — the girl of my 20-year-old dreams included — went to the movie, and I went home, stewing. Not knowing what better to do, I pulled out my typewriter and hacked out a three-page, single-spaced letter to my best friend about the evils of Prince and how I’d been wronged.
If my friend wanted to blackmail me, he’d have good evidence. However, even if it doesn’t turn out as I’d planned, more often than not when I’m steamed, hitting keys on the keyboard certainly beats breaking the device in two.
Right now, the subject of my anger is a certain political couple that hooked up just last week. We now officially have the scariest mainstream ticket in presidential history — an old reactionary codger who couldn’t stand up to wingnuts in his own party and named a political hack whose inexperience, intolerance, and rank stupidity have now been chronicled far and wide, much better than I will attempt in this space.
This not only scares the shit out of me (I’ve actually lost sleep at thought of a President Palin) but the oozing stream of lies from the GOP infuriates me to no end, not to mention the fact there are people wholly willing to believe in it. Of course, the country re-elected Bush, and there’s enough moronic, unemployed white fucks in Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania looking for any excuse not to vote for a black person to put McCain-Pallin into office.
Ach, you can see rage getting the better of me already…
Fake pic, fake person
Anger, and its close cousin, jealousy, have fueled many a writing sessions, even if the results were bad. It’s always self-righteous fury at stupid politicians, stupid writing teachers, stupid writers, and stupid people who all seem to exert some power over me, a power that I have no recourse to change. (Perhaps I should title this entry, "The Stupids.").
It’s too bad that every time I write in anger the result is rotten. It’s often unpleasant or unreadable. It sounds like a bad polemic from a bitter old man, shaking his fist at the world and screaming how much the world owes him because of his past suffering.
You know, like John McCain.