Saturday, October 29, 2011

Cathartic Hurling

"You should..."

 I hate that. Should what? Not feel, not fall, behave, conform, be normal?  Put up with your domineering control, your invasion of my personal space, your disregard for all that's decent. I'm out of control after a life of doing what I 'should'.

You're not shielded by that glass you know, it's no two-way mirror, you're visible, transparent. I see you. I hear you. Your hypocrisy. Your shallow life, your poor advice, your misguided loyalty, your selfishness. You just want me to be as miserable as you. I hurl pebbles at your morality, your judgement, your anal retentiveness, you're false accusations and attempts make me conform disappear.

One to wake you up. Two to get your attention. Three to make you alert. Four to exert a reaction. Five to make you get off the couch. Six to rile you up. Seven to really piss you off.  Eight to make you shout. Nine to make you reach for the gun, the baseball bat, whatever defensive tool you think you need. Ten to make you open the front door.  Eleven because it's loud. Twelve because I have more in my hand. Thirteen because you'll get superstitious and duck. Fourteen because that's how old you behave. Fifteen because . . shit, because it's a nice round number divisible by five and three. Sixteen because I wish I was. Fuck it, have the remaining handful . . 20 to shatter your facade, expose your narkiness, shit you to tears, bruise your two faces.

So good to see this world is alive with all its failings and fallacies - personified by you. Two-faced, uncommunicative bastard and your progeny of selfish brats. Your silence as vehement as your outrageous over-vocalisation and emotional bullying. Tonight I'm high and not taking any of your shit. You're an idiot, a moron, a thorn in my side, selfishness personified. Empathy murdered. Enjoy your leather sofas and wide screen TV. Revel in your designer accoutrements and flash cars. A dick in a dickie suit is still a dick. Can't wait to see you crumble like so much windscreen glass. 

Try as you might to hurl the pebbles back, I am not made of glass.  I'm Teflon.  I'd rather my own company than suffer yours.  It's all good. Pretending you don't exist.

4 comments:

  1. Well. I suspect there's a story behind the story. As I read the reasons for the pebbles, I kept looking for the ones that felt like they had to do with your protagonist.

    ... because I have bad days sometimes and need support too; because I deserve respect and consideration; because I'm sick of spending so much time living your life that I barely have the energy for my own; because I'm tired with playing your mommy; because you take me for granted; because you treat me like shit; because I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.

    That's what I wanted to see.

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  2. well i am sure it felt better getting it off your chest...

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  3. nuts in a dish!

    spill 'em...i love a good rant

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