Up on the Wrong Side

Ever wake up, for no good reason, just sort of pissed at the world? Actually, for some people the question is, do you ever not. But anyway, that’s not usually how I wake up. Usually I’m ok. Maybe not great, but ok. I don’t mind being awake; sun in the window, or the sound of […]

Ever wake up, for no good reason, just sort of pissed at the world?

Actually, for some people the question is, do you ever not.

But anyway, that’s not usually how I wake up. Usually I’m ok. Maybe not great, but ok. I don’t mind being awake; sun in the window, or the sound of rain, and the promise of one of the best things in my day, that first cup of strong, dark coffee.

Today though, some dream, or some turn of moon or some other turmoil in the back of my mind soaked across the line that divides subconscious mind from mood, and I woke wanting to hit something.

I don’t even feel bad this morning, physically, which is a good thing; the first moring in a week I havn’t woken with a a sinus headache.

Yet – this low, murky feeling of rage. This vague desire to do harm with no real specific target and no ability to communicate what it is. No ability to communicate at all; I’ve been trying to answer emails all morning and just keep sitting and staring, hands hovering over the keyboard. Nothing. No words come.

I’m not even mad at anyone, or anything. It’s a static charge of annoyance that needs to arc someplace.

Normally I’d feel better – food, coffee, exercise, these simple things please me. Even doing crunches until my muscles burned didn’t sear away the feeling. I would go back to bed but after three cups of my black liquid crack, there’s no sleeping, not for a good twelve hours at least, if that.

I feel like Al Swearingen in the Deadwood episode Here Was a Man; “I need to fuck something! Trixie, get up here. And bring the bottle.”

Yeah. That’d work.

8 thoughts on “Up on the Wrong Side”

  1. I deal with formless rage mentally: I vent my spleen at abstract problems; usually just picking up a newspaper provides a target. Sure I bore people with the resultant rants, but it feels good.

  2. Hiromi, sometimes that works, but usually words fail me in that state and I need something intensely physical. Pain works. Violence works. Noise sometimes works.

    Maybe thats’ why I suddenly can’t stop wanting to get tattooed.

  3. That’d be why I play Ice Hockey, Karl.

    It’s VERY theraputic to hit a guy crossing over the middle and have his helmet go one way, his stick another, the puck a third and his gloves a fourth and fifth…

    Especially if he squeaks like a dog toy when you pop him.

    Heh. Puts a smile on my face just THINKING about it.

    -Patrick “Whumpa!”

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