Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Rage. Sometimes.

I have a terrible temper. When I was younger and rebelling against my parents I had a tendency to throw jars of change through windows and to punch holes in drywall. 
My teen years sucked. I hated them and hope to make my son's better than mine were. 
I have grown and changed, obviously. I no longer resort to violence when I get angry. 
Okay, that's not to say that I haven't thrown a shampoo bar here and there or stomped upstairs to pout. Its a slightly more mature reaction. 
But the rage is still there. I get angry and have thoughts of driving my car into crowds of people. Of cocking a shotgun into that asshole's face. Of losing my shit and beating some ass. Of screaming all those clever, hurtful things that I think of after the fact. 
I feel it-the heat, the trembling that comes right before you lose it completely. 
I simply do not act on it any longer. I realized (with the help of LSD, the late 90s Phish lot scene, and being incredibly impressionable) that it is MY choice to turn into a raving, bitchy lunatic when I do not get my way. 
I frighten myself sometimes. I don't want to be an angry person. I want to be a happy person with the ability to be angry sometimes. 
Let's just say I have given myself some time-outs. 
And THAT is how I know I'm growing. 

However. We have been without our air conditioning for over a week. Over a sweltering, humid, fan-less, sticky week. Yes, I have taken Milo to the in-laws to bask in their cooled air. But I like my house, filthy though it is. 
I also like sleeping without a film of sweat on my nethers. I like NOT smelling the fishy garbage stink that wafts through my open windows because we live downwind and two dumpsters are not enough for the FOUR buildings that use them. 
And if homeboy doesn't show today to install that motherfucking blower motor I may very well regress. 
Or just bite the inside of my cheeks until they bleed. 

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