Anger. Anger. But to what end. I’ve always had anger, but I’ve never found much use for it. I end up stuffing it. What does a peacenik do with his anger? I guess I can be a jerk. I can be cold. I can be adrift. My unused anger clouds my brain. Maybe I have a particularly large amount of anger. And that really doesn’t jive with my assuaging ways. Quite the extremist.

So instead, what do I do? I let it out in tiny portions. Or I let it in. I turn my anger inwards on myself. Or I let it out on those closest to me. I have used this blog and therapy sessions as a way to more safely and effectively deal with my bottled up anger. Something made me angry today. Something probably makes me angry every day. Maybe the same thing. Is resentment the same as anger? I can’t distinguish.

Why do I let other people do the angriness for me? I love angry people. Literally. Angry, angry, angry. Angry. Angry. Hungry. Angry. Am I hungry or angry. One book I read proposed that words that sound similar can get intertwined in your subconscious. So if I’m angry, I might decide that I’m hungry instead. I wouldn’t be surprised if I overate out of anger. Since I don’t really have any better ideas. On the subject. Maybe I should ask Percy Grainger. It’s too bad I don’t have more time to figure these things out. Life is fleeting, isn’t it. I’m breathing. I’m angry. It matters. It matters. It matters how I feel. It matters that I feel. It matters that I was born. It matters.

I do like writing. I like talking too. There are those that like neither. No common ground. I wish my anger could wipe away annoying people. I wish I could act on my anger and everything would be perfect, would be wiped clean. I’m waiting for that to happen. Suddenly. I’ve always hoped it would be sudden.

I like to say to Cody, “I have a secret. I love you.” I like to be sneaky. I like to be surreptitious. I like to live in the dark. Too bad it’s a scary place. A place of sorrow. But it’s protected. You’re relatively safe. Some people keep their joys a secret. Maybe I do. Otherwise they are open to mockery and accusation. They can be challenged, debunked. There was a time, before certain things happened, that I was willing to shout my joys to all the world. A time where I knew of safety. A good time. A childlike time. A child doesn’t need to be demure, or shy. Adults suck. Adulthood is hell. Hell is where you can’t shout out. You’re muzzled. You’re muffled. Hell. Hell. Oh, hell. Why do we have to grow up? Why? Why is it necessary? Who invented adulthood? Who came up with the idea? Someone who was robbed of their childhood?