Temper, temper

I'd like to think I've mellowed with age. But I'd be wrong.

If there are enough little things that build up, there's no stopping me from going over the edge. Under the "right" circumstances, I can be rather ... violent. Not toward people or animals. But watch your ass if you're an inanimate object.

Shortly after moving to my present location, I was trying to organize the closet. The rod that holds the clothes fell. Three times. I kicked the shit out of a box, then kicked it some more. When kicking was unsatisfactory, I punched a wall. Not a real wall, just wood paneling. I bruised my hand pretty good -- to the point where I went and got a wrist brace for support.

The temper flared tonight, all because of a can opener. Rather, the inability of a can opener to properly open a can. Add to that the fact the kitchen is a fucking pig sty (through no fault of my own; I don't cook here) and it's about a billion degrees in here (AC is ass-tastic) and I snapped. I kicked the metal garbage can -- in sandals -- with my right foot. The same foot that had a George Foreman grill fall on it just a few minute earlier. Foot seems to be fine, just a little sore. And it's still hot in here.

I don't like losing control like that. It tends to happen over stupid shit.

Then again, I guess it's the price I pay for not letting the big, stupid shit get to me. Or at least putting on the appearance that the big shit doesn't get to me.

It's not so much that I internalize too much. I'm still pretty damn vocal. But it's just a matter of venting and letting go. That was a long, agonizing lesson to learn. It's something that still takes work, just not as much as before.

But cut me some slack. It's that time of year -- the time of year where bitterness rears its head a little more often and the mind is filled with thoughts of ...

... you wish. As if the easy way out would be a just penance.