I may or may not be glaring at you.
February 15th, 2016
Sometimes I wonder how I've avoided spending my days in prison.
It seems like everyone wants to keep pushing my buttons, pushing my buttons, pushing my buttons. I'm trying to mind my own business and just do my job, but literally every single person in this wretched hive of dullards wants to needle me just a little bit. It's like they have to wave their dicks around, whether or not anatomy blessed them with such a feature, and in my face no less.
My natural tendency and apparent genetic predilection is to beat such people into a pulp, but I resist this urge. I've gotten angry enough to black out more than once, leaving holes in my memory that have distressingly never been filled. I think the only recipient of my ire on one such occasion was a few hundred dollars' worth of Taco Bell merchandise, but at least that was inanimate.
Once I was done casting it about the 'restaurant', at any rate.
The last thing I need is to have this kind of fugue in regards to some obnoxious twit at work, because whether or not I actually kill them, the end result is them being smug at me one last time. You know, while I'm carted off to the pokey... for a very, very long time. Yes, you can be smug at people from beyond the grave. Stupid corpses, always sneering at me.
So I'm trying desperately to get a handle on myself today because frankly, after the last few weeks I've had, I've been pushed further and further off the ledge, towards delicious, delicious mayhem. And the idea of just throwing my hands up and indulging in the punchy urges I directly inherited from my dad is almost as appealing as that sensation you get when slipping into a pair of pants fresh out of the drier.
My warm, comfy hate pants beckon me, but I'm trying to behave.