Oct 15, 2003

Being nice and the art of the pain in your gluteus maximus

Somedays, you don't want to be nice. You want to tell me to get the hell out and bury my head in a pile of garbage, preferrably garnished with sharp, jagged glass. You don't want to be polite to me, even if you should. You want to be treated nicer, but if you're not, that's fine for today - it doesn't matter because you don't want to be nice in any circumstance. You secretly fantasise about throwing the coffee cup in your hand from the balcony and shattering it into as many pieces as the laws of physics will allow. You want to ram full-tilt into the guy ahead of you who has cut you off, notwithstanding the fact that you cut someone else off in the process. That's fine [You now know that I don't always begin my sentences with "you']. You just want to give both those <blips> their comeuppances. They may have not directly deserved the flogging, but by being in this world, they're as much to blame. You no longer believe in repressing your feelings, even if society says that anger must be controlled. You know that the masters say that anger must be dissipated or channelized, but you are no fooking John McEnroe, so help you God, I cannot be serious. You tremble as you substitute one diplomatic word for a harsher one so that you don't hurt someone's feelings. You couldn't care less - you try being mean to others for a change. It's soothing. Especially because you know that, you prodigal son you, you have to return to the fooking fold of the polite - and that you have to stop thinking in second person narratives.

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