Explode

I wish we had machines that channeled our anger for us.

Your daily routine: do the dishes, hang the laundry, channel your anger down an eco-friendly disposer. Or sweat it out through your skin. Or spit it out like mucus. Something, anything, besides this soul-wrenching process of convincing you why I have the right to feel the way I do.

The wretched are always angry. I wish women found it easier to ex instead of im plode. I have images of myself exploding in the middle of your living room leaving blots of my blood and veins and intestines all over your floor. But then I worry about who’s going to clean this big mess up and I decide it’s better to keep it all inside.

It is easier to feel sad than angry. It is better to get angry than depressed.

It is impossible to talk to you for three reasons a) you never listen and b) why should I have to explain it in the first place and c) you won’t make an effort to learn my language and d) your power makes you need not be sincere and e) I find it hard to hold my tears but I don’t want to cry because then you’ll say I am too emotional and f) I’ve waited so long you’ll think it irrelevant now that I bring up what happened in 1989 91 96 98 2000 and 2 and g) your voice mail is full.

I’m starting to believe that something needs to break, and it’s not the mug on the wall this time and not the lock on the door this time and not my dignity this time, but something bigger and more divine. I’m starting to believe that overcoming is not a big bang but the slow chipping away at big huge mountains until you come to the realization that you’re more than half-way through.