Day 2: Anger management

We are the blogs, we are the blogs, we are the, we are the, we are the blogs.

Terror washes over me like the smell from an old man's knickers. Fear tweaks at my nipples. Trepidation calls me from my comfortable existence and shakes me to attention like a baby left with an English nanny. Today has been a stay of execution as I trawl nervously from thought to thought hoping to stumble, like a dog walker finding a corpse, upon something interesting to write about. I seek high and low for a worthy topic to act as the pale, youthful (sexy?) virgin to throw at the feet of the dragon. Of you. Of the blog.

Or at least I would have been afraid, I had a second to set aside wondering about inventive ways to be cynical on demand or a new way to refer to my privates rather than working my arse off getting many, many things accomplished. Pressure can sometimes drive me down the path of stultifying fear, but there is another way. Furious, nut crunching, bowel herniating, thrombosis boiling rage. Pure, beautiful anger.

If fear is a prison, then anger is standing on the other side of the walls licking it's lips and passing cheap snout through the gaps in the fence. If you stand near another person venting their anger it can be a beautiful thing to witness. Today, I was sitting idly at my computer, trying to imagine time doubling in speed without having to get up to 88 miles per hour, when I began to listen to the phone conversation happening on the other side of the room.

As with most frustrating conversations, the topic was petty, but despite my boss slowing his speech to a speed so deliberate that a six year old might have been able to grasp his point and knock up a spreadsheet for him on a Speak and Spell, the tree headed porridge brain down the other end of the line seemed barely able to grasp that you can't eat the handset of a telephone and that the mystical noise wasn't coming from inside his own head, let alone put together a suitable package of figures.

The less the anonymous ninny down the line understood, the more the vein in the side of my manager's head threatened to split open like a geyser and redecorate the room, before the optic nerves in his eyes pushed through his iris's, run down the phone line and seize whoever was on the other end, wrap themselves around their neck and repeatedly pound their face into the desk. It was a joy to behold.

For my own part, managing my anger has been difficult to sustain. I console myself with the thought that it's not a losing battle if you never even put up a fight, so I regularly settle into a warm and comforting evening of rage. However, just recently, I've found myself contented with my lot, mellow, warm, cosy, snug... bored.

Luckily, that changed as I left the opening paragraphs of this blog to attend to my dinner, which was warming nicely in the oven. The smell of delicious sausages coming from the kitchen made me reflect on the wonders of pork, but also wander how I could write about witnessing the rage of others, while cooking up a porcine feast and feeling drowsy.

I wondered over to the oven and noticed they were getting a little brown. No matter, as there is surely still time for the beans. Lovely beans. Nice natural colour too, orange. Now, all I need to do is get the tin opener... oops, no need, it's got one of those useful ring pulls. So handy now. So handy that you don't need openers or... wait... ow.... God I wish I had longer nails. Here it comes... Any second.... oh. Shit. OK, so what happens when the ring comes off? Shit. Tin opener, oh, how you save me in my hour of need. Here we go... hmmm, doesn't seem to fit into these ring pull ones properly. It's already pre-cut. Maybe if I just bash it gently with the end of tin opener it will... COCK IT. Bean juice is a bugger to get out... oh shit, the sausages, quick... OWWW. DAMNFUCKINGCOCKHOLES. That oil is red hot. Oh, yeah, I forgot the eggs. Now where's the pan?... THE PAN? THE ONE FOR THE EGGS? COME HERE. Get in there, you dead chicken shell face ring licker. BROKEN YOLK!!!!DAMNYOUANDTHEHORSEYOURODEINTOTOWNON. Shit, the microwave is beeping now. FUCK. Who put that bean juice on the floor? Come here sausage. Damn you egg... RIGHTTHATSITWHERESMYCHAINSAWYOU'REGOINGTOMAKEMEBRINGTHEPAINCOMEONSAUSGEDOYOUWANTSOMEOFTHIS?DOYOU?FEELTHEBURNFEELTHEBUUUURRRRRRNN.

Seriously, it was as if the Chuckle Brothers were auditioning for Master Chef but had been possessed by Roy Chubby Brown. It was like a hastily constructed episode of Come Dine with Me starring Robocop, Ian Paisley, Ren Hoek, Nick Griffin and a live tiger. But after the dust had settled and with supper in me belly, I felt a warm glow. It was as if releasing all that rage was actually worth it. It felt really, really good.

Perhaps the best way to manage your anger, is not to manage it at all. Occasionally it's good to let it out. I find that it's best to let it out into the face of someone you hate. Ha.

Loveyouallsomuchitsometimesmakesmedribble.xx