Sometimes I get mad.  Sometimes I get angry.  Sometimes I get furious.  It can be a little out of control at times,which for some people that think they know me well…is surprising.  I can control it very well in public environments.  This anger…I have found…reminds me of my own mother.  She used to get mad at the door or mad at the sound of stirring coffee or a chair not pushed into the dinner table.  I am beginning to see the infant stages of this madness…not like crazy insane madness, but more like rage.

Rage!  Uncontrollable blood curdling anger.  There have been times that I have seen things in my house…for instance, a piece of discarded mail, and I will see it on, let’s say, Monday.  Monday this mail is just a piece of mail.  Tuesday I see the mail.  It is still mail, but I am annoyed at its placement and question how and why it got there.  Wednesday the mail is still there.  I stare it down.  I ask rhetorical questions to the air, like, does anyone need this mail or why is this still sitting here?  Thursday I might be really busy and race out of the house, and busy when I come home, or distracted by other thingies laying around.  In the back of my mind, I know it’s still there…and I stew.  By Friday this piece of mail is in utter fear, questioning its own existence, like, I hope she doesn’t notice me or why didn’t he put me where I am supposed to go?

Friday, I spot the mail again.  I stare, I question common sense things…Do we have a garbage?  And then I answer the question as well.  I know we have a garbage and it seems that this should be in there.  I don’t know why it’s not.  It’s not my mail, I don’t know why I have to take care of it.  By now, I have the mail in my hand.  My face gets red.  The mail has been crumpled and torn and stomped on and thrown into the trash, dug out again, and torn into more smaller bits and thrown back in the trash again.  Then I curse at the mail and at the entity that has left it where it is for so long without taking care of it.

Stupid fucking mail.  Why can’t he turn around and throw it away after he opens it.  All he has to do is turn around and walk two steps and throw it away.  Why is he saving this for me?  Gaahhh!

And then the guilt hits and I find myself sounding much too much like my mother.  I love my mother, but I am not excited to emulate those parts of her.  Along with the guilt is sadness…and more anger.  Man, why do I have to get like that…in a sad way and an angry way.  Mad that I got mad and also sad that I got mad.  A sick vicious cycle.  This is happening constantly.  Certain items are on their first day, while others are on their fifth…yikes.  Things are not safe.  Nothing is safe.  And this type of thing happens all the time, constantly.  It’s like an addiction…like I need to flip out on a daily or weekly basis.

But really…don’t we have a garbage?  It’s like no one knows that things can be thrown away.  Piss me off.


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