Many things trigger the rage. The alarm not going off. The dog eating my shoe making me angry three days later. Something messing up at work. Realizing I need to find a new job soon.
The Rage hates finding new jobs. The rage would rather punch walls and leave me with a purple welt for a middle right knuckle. Which it has.
So I’ve tried to define Job as FMOPTB which is an acronym for a Fulfilling Means of Paying the Bills. I need to find a new Fulfilling Means of Paying the Bills. Soon.
Trouble is, my mind is blank. The Rage is making me want to ram the car into a too-tight double-parking space. Throw things around the office. Go home and do naughty things with something sharp. The Rage is reminding me of all the people I’ve met who make me mad when I think about them. All the sordid bits of a life.
The Rage makes me want to punch metal walls until my knuckles fall off. Throw paper clippings at the sky. Scream maniacally into the street and not eat lunch.
The Rage does not like that I got an overdraft fee of $35. Equivelant to one doctor’s visit. One physical therapy appointment. A trip to the grocery store to buy a few “things”. Lunch for four days. A new shirt. Shoes. Books. Anything but paying the bank for the honor of transferring funds from my saving into my checking account.
The Rage makes me hostile towards my coworkers. Makes my skin crawl with a thousand sour pin pricks. Makes me twitch and glower. Makes me probably look like a Neanderthal. But the Rage is here again, and there is not a whole lot I can do about it. The Rage wants me crushed like a damaged car into a thin sheet of metal. The Rage wants my fists bloody. Wants my eyes torn out. Wants me to give up on the whole FMOPTB thing. The Rage gives up. The Rage has no hope. The Rage, of course, is like a blood clot. Black and red and full of some type of goo that just looks, well, slimy. And you don’t want to touch it. The Rage needs to go on a vacation. Become the demon on someone else’s shoulder. Because the Rage has no foresight. The Rage has no sense of serendipity or resolution. The Rage wants to hurt things and people, leave me an empty snail shell for someone else to crawl into. The Rage hates me, and I hate the Rage, but we are symbiotic somehow, and it is hard to curtail the Rage’s exploitations on my being.
The Rage is BEGGING me to go do something INSANE. NOW! The Rage is telling me, damn it, you just can’t SIT there and type – go DO something! And do it wildly! LOSE YOUR SHIT YOU LITTLE PERSON.
The Rage likes to yell.
The Rage obviously has a temper and needs to be sedated. I will give the rage a yellow pill and hope it slows down, just a smidgen. Because the Rage has no hope, only malice. The Rage needs to be imbibed with a Thorazine shuffle and dressed in a robe and pink slippers. I could give the Rage a cocktail glass filled with sparkling water and a lime, maybe a cigar to hold in it’s fat lips. The Rage can sit and chill for a while in a padded room.
Trouble is, the Rage is synergistic, encompassing my whole person. Creeping up and pouncing like a wild ocelot. The Rage thrives on lack of sleep and not eating. The Rage likes things bloody and blind.
The Rage is going to have to take a chill pill. We’ll see how it likes that.