I can talk small or I can talk big. Small: internal. Big: world. Both affect the other; my internal talk colors the exterior world and the world weighs heavily on my internal dialogue.
These days, my bro cuts me off a lot. Then again, I’m angry a lot. I have a lot to be angry about. And since there’s not a proper word for how I feel, I find I have to make one up. There’s only one combination of letters that do it, too. T.R.U.M.P. You’ve been trumped. Or trump you! My only resort is to turn the oompa-loompa’s name into a verb because it’s the only combination of letters that puts the vile taste of feces in my mouth, forcing a gag response. Trump. Now there’s a five letter word that’s worse than any other, in any language.
Violence springs to mind easily. Bringing certain people up in the crosshairs. Certain buildings being torn down. Oh, let’s be honest – I want to crucify a few monsters. Hang them up and dance around laughing as their blood drips down on my head. I make no bones about that level of hate: I’ve always had it. Always struggled with it. Now that hate has been unleashed as the new accessory must-have for 2017, I find little reason to contain that side of me.
Oh, to be 30 years younger and still mobile! What a great amount of ass I’d kick!
…Ah, but I’m too old at this point to sustain that level of hate for long. For one, I don’t like the way it makes me feel – tense, angry, ready to kill. For another, it really does color my reality; I jump out in anger rather than see things as they are, and make everything worse because of it. And it’s no way to live. Living in anger isn’t living at all. I know that. It’s just very, very difficult to let go of….
Been stalling out on making my script corrections. A day break is stretching out for a long, long time – or so it seems. I acknowledge I’m in hyper-mode. Time no longer moves properly for me. It darts here, then drags there. Always in the back of my mind is the knowledge that when the corrections are done, it’s time to try to send it out – and that’s what’s holding me up. Fear of sending it out. Fear it’s a piece of crap. Fear of rejection. I’ll get over it, no doubt. Always do. But it IS a mountain I have to climb, and I find the silhouette clearly delineated in mind: it seems bigger and colder than the mountains I’ve climbed before. I’m afraid somewhere in my head I’ve set myself up to think this is my last shot, my last hope of finding something I’m good at. And if I bugger it…I don’t want to fall into the same old pattern of self-doubt and depression.
Haven’t heard anything from the director, who said he was going to read it days ago.
Said it before; I’ll say it again: thank goddess for the gym. Sometimes I’m afraid of what I look like as I work. My thoughts wander freely, and more than once I’ve caught myself smiling or frowning, completely unconnected to what I’m doing. And I know what I look like when anger flits across my face; it’s been likened to a thundercloud. Imagine it: a 51 year old woman sweating up a storm on this machine or that machine, alternately smiling, frowning, and wearing a look that strikes fear into just about anyone who sees it. I must look insane.
Screwed up my fysio appointment yesterday. In my defense, his ‘3’ did look like a sloppy ‘5’ at a fast glance. Somehow I got 15:00 in my head as the time, and no matter how many times I looked at my appointment card that’s what I saw. That’s what I wrote down and noted on my computer. I was even ready to argue the point, when he caught me in the waiting room and let me know I’d missed my time – right up ’til I pulled it out and took a better look at it. Then it was clearly marked as 13:00, not 15:00 as I’d thought. Geez! Felt the idiot. Tune in next week: same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.
The world seems full of pink hats and orange fake tans. It’s caught up in a sea-grey metal box and oozing pus. I am so tired of it, I almost wish the war would just start already. Fire the first shot; let’s stop with all this bullshit pretending. The world is ripe. Almost rotten with hate.
*sigh* Goddamn it. Didn’t want to go there.
Yet how can I not? How can we not talk politics these days, when every decision comes down to life or death for someone? That IS what we’re discussing. Cut medical aid, and someone dies. Cut food stamps, and someone dies. Cut help for the disabled, the poor, the homeless, and someone dies. Send troops and someone dies. Set up puppet regimes and someone dies. Slash personal freedoms, restrict the press, and jail those who oppose you and someone dies. Call for complete anarchy, mob rule, and someone dies.
Do you really understand that?
And do you understand that the further marginalized someone is, the closer they are to being that ‘someone’ who dies? Do you care?
Maybe you can’t care until you’re there. In those shoes. Destitute, unloved, unwanted. Too many people are terrified of that, and it IS a thing to be terrified of. And that is what needs to change.
I may be forever cursed with an excess of hate in me. I acknowledge that. I acknowledge my hotheadedness, my stubbornness, my fear.
I. will. not. act on it.
What a very un-merry merry-go-round.