After finishing up a challenging task that I find distatesful but can’t change, I swell with bile and liquid rage. Amber fluid that flushes behind the eyes, begging to be vented through the lips and fingertips – a toxin that corrodes the faith of my friends.
I seek something I can really get angry at, yell at, and call terrible without the knowledge that someone around me is going to think I hate them, in a justified fashion. I should start putting racist and mysoginistic games on my wishlist just so I can have something to rage at in totally unfiltered ways without my friends dreading that I’m passive-aggressively telling them they’re dreadful people.
Hating things is something I’m actually good at. There are ideas that merit opposition, that merit rage even, yet you can’t say it. You can’t say things that are true, because in the reflection of their reflection of their reflection someone catches a glimpse of themselves. A dozen chat windows and almost none in which I can say what I think.
It’s unpleasant to know that the thing you’re good at is a thing nobody wants or needs.