On Rage

The interesting thing about simmering rage is that eventually, it will pop and splatter like bacon grease in a cast iron skillet. 

One should never cook bacon whilst naked, for that very reason.  You never know where that hot, explosive rage is going to land, and heaven forbid it scald your nethers.

As a child, I was consumed by rage and I don’t even know why.

I had a happy childhood.  Great parents.  Funny sister.  Cutest dog, ever.  Together we traveled the globe, in search of adventure.

So where did it come from, that rage?  I still don’t know.

It was just this thing, this animal that lived inside my veins and had to make itself known.  It had to scratch and claw and maim to satisfy its thirst for blood.

When I was a teenager I learned how to manage that shit.  Because, holy mother of god, I was a handful, even to myself.

Lately that random, bacon-grease splattering rage has been popping up unexpectedly, leaving me whispering to myself like a lunatic, “What the fuck, Dre?”.

I’ve got this anger, see?  And sometimes it feels like it’s eating me alive.  I’m pissed the fuck off.  But I can’t just let it explode, because I’m a responsible adult with impressionable children and also a conscience and a shitload of empathy.

So I’m back to lifting weights.  I didn’t realize how much of a release that was until I hadn’t been doing it for a few weeks. 

It feels good.  I feel good.  My abs feel good.  And also my ass, although you’ll have to take my word for it.  I’ll post some pictures, soon.

Fortunately, I find myself wanting to yell, “FUCK YOU!” at people a lot less often.  Also good.

Although. 

I really would like to scream “Fuck You!” at someone, at some point in my life.  And possibly punch them in the face afterward. 

I’ll put that on my bucket list.