Rage is the only thing

13 02 2014

You know it’s been a long time since you updated your blog when you can’t remember the log on password.

Are they even called those anymore? Is it just “log-in”? How chic, how over it.

Okay, get ready for a really uplifting post.

I’m such a fucking angry person in my head lately that it’s embarrassing to me. I just spelled embarrassing wrong twice, and the error made me want to punch spike my own face in. What is a punch spike? I guess it’s like in volleyball where you’re trying to spike the ball but you end up punching it instead cause you want to win so bad, but you know nothing you do matters because no one gives a shit.

Positive. Yeah. Keep it positive.

I try to deal with my anger at ALL THINGS by repeating “helpful” little mantras to myself like

“Be the change you want to see in the world”

or

“Don’t put yourself down because the world will do that for you”

or

“Be forgiving towards others and others will do so for you in turn, my son.”

I made up the last one, and it’s not even applicable because I’m a daughter. And also “will do so for you in turn” is too many short words in a row.

I’ve been using a lot more dashes and semicolons in my writing because I want to fix my habit of using too many commas, but I’m only confident in my usage 60 percent of the time.

I don’t know why I’m so angry.

A lady on a scooter bumped into me while I was waiting at a traffic light today. Then I glared at her, and then I got mad at myself for caring enough to turn my head around to glare at her (my neck is super stiff all the time so it’s an effort for me to turn my head – so then I got mad at my neck for being so stiff all the time, and also myself for not being one of those yoga people). She just glared back at me, and crab walked her scooter past me to run a red light.

It wasn’t even a hard bump, but I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.

I guess I’ll just have to add her to my shit list. It’s getting to be a pretty long list.

Fei’s Shit List

Stupid fucking winter

My co-worker who told me I’d never be able to pull off fashionable clothes if I kept being fat

Bumpy crab-walk lady on scooter

My stupid stiff neck

Loud talky guy in the office next door

Translation clients who are decidedly NOT NATIVE ENGLISH SPEAKERS, but tell me to be more “native” and use more “native” terminology.

Candy Crush Saga

Girls and Hannah Horvath

The one Helen from the Thirty Helens who sometimes disagrees

I just got distracted by that Kids in the Hall reference and I made myself chuckle. Dammit no! No chuckling! This is supposed to be an angry blog.

I guess the person I’m most angry at is myself, because I just can’t ever seem to be happy. Or satisfied.

I have a job now where my job is to WRITE, which was a pipe dream a year ago when I was lying in the middle of a giant pile of blankets, orange peels, and broken dreams making a list of my failures on a nightly basis as a sort of fucked up insomniac’s lullaby, but I can’t bring myself to do any actual writing at my job.

Now I lie awake in the middle of the night playing Candy Crush Saga (the fucking bane of my fucking life. I’m adding that game to my shitlist) so I don’t have to worry about losing my job where I get to write for a living (OMFG I get to WRITE FOR A LIVING. WHAT. HOW.). So while I’m worrying about losing my job where I get to write for a living, I’m also worrying about the job sapping me of my will to write for myself because I watched a very funny episode of Girls where Hannah worries that writing advertorials for GQ will destroy her will to write.

Girls is going on my shit list too.

Making shit lists is actually really fun.

Anyways. While I am worrying about losing my job and having my job, I am also fully aware that I have only just begun my job, and it would make no sense for them to fire me just after I’ve started, especially since I seem to be doing pretty okay with it, as my boss loudly exclaims my work is “great” and “wonderful” and has even introduced me as “fantastic” to her boss on one magical, rose-tinted occasion. This awareness makes me incredibly ANGRY at myself for being so fucking ridiculous and such a shitty shit shithead.

It’s a cycle of hate.

I have suspected for a number of years that perhaps, just maybe, I have self-esteem issues, and might also, perhaps, just maybe, be, you know, clinically depressed.

But that seems like such a cliche way to go. Introverted creative type has depression. What else is new?

I don’t think it’s that serious. I’m joking about it because I don’t think it’s that serious. I don’t know if I should be joking about it or not, but it makes me feel better to joke about it, so I’m going to keep doing that.

I’ve, sort of kind of built up a pressurized underwater chamber protected with a password that’s changed hourly and that’s where I keep the horrible hairy black beast monster that whispers all kinds of bullshit asshole stuff to me.

Stuff like “just die already” and “you’re going to be old soon and you’ve never even known how it feels to be pretty” and “you’re such a disappointment that your own mother misses Skype dates with you on purpose so she doesn’t have to talk to you.”

But all the emotional capital I’ve spent on soundproofing has been for naught (that, my friend, is how you over-wear a metaphor), and the shitty fuck-head beast keeps talking, and I can still hear every damned thing it says.

God this is depressing. But for once I’m not going to filter everything I say. (“You filter what you say?” ask all the people who’ve ever spoken to me)

Talking about this bullshit helps. I’m going to publicize this, because knowing people hear you is helpful too.

You know what else is helpful? Being a writer. Because even as I am in the middle of a two hour crying jag (FOR NO REASON) part of me is chronicling how funny it is to cry for no reason and make a giant snot puddle in the middle of the bed that David then has to sleep on. There’s no possibility of laughing about it when I’m in the moment, but it’s still pretty funny, you know, objectively. That writer part of me is also searching for the best way to frame it as an anecdote to shove into a story somehow; so I get some distance from the sadness and it doesn’t like, totally consume me.

I guess rage is better than apathy, and as long as I have the anger I know I’m alive. Or something. I just wish my own name wasn’t at the top of my shit list all the damned time.


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