Category Archives: Rage

How to Properly Hate the New Administration.

I need to find a constructive way to channel my anger. More constructive, that is, than daily insulting Tweets aimed at Trump and occasional baiting of vocal white supremacists online. It’s not wrong to do those things, exactly – but those activities don’t have any real impact. I may as well stroll pass the white house and give Donald the finger.

Oh! I have relevant media to share! Here are a few non-violent ways to express yourself in the coming weeks and months.

 

Also, call your representatives and let them know what you’d like them to do. Thank them when they do their job. We’ll all get through this together.

Fall Food, Fake-Looking Flowers, and other F-Words

The illustration aside, I don’t really hate Fall. By-and-large it’s an ok season. I was always a nerd who looked forward to school starting, so it does still hold the promise of new beginnings. I still get that. The clothes are ok — and I would give pumpkins a pass if they were not shoved into every food and beverage on every menu.

But you know, Autumn also marks the end of summer. It’s a harbinger of Winter, which does not charm me at all. And mums shouldn’t even qualify as flowers.

Tuesday was a Carnival of Suck, and It’s My Fault For Getting Out of Bed

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Misstep #1: Waking up

I wanna shoot the whole day down. It just got off on the wrong foot, and then it stumbled awkwardly on that wrong foot from hour to hour like a drunk in an old-timey picture show.

First, I woke up in a crap mood. I had a dream that was vaguely boring and vaguely annoying that left me feeling equal parts bored and annoyed when I woke up.

It was cloudy outside. My pajamas felt all twisty. I could have used another hour of sleep. I was thirsty for juice, and I had no juice. What smells like onion? Everything was wrong, but it was just a bunch of inconsequential little things.

It had been foretold. Even my horoscope has been warning me to just sit this month out. Mercury is retrograde and something about eclipses forming a kind of Bermuda Triangle of unremitting badness and blah blah blah. Basically, I need to lay low until everything is done eclipsing.

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My actual horoscope.

But I don’t believe in astrology. I believe in science. So I said “to hell with this,” took a hot shower, put on a black dress and my black knee-high boots, pulled my hair back in a pony-tail and started my day like a champ.

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Ready(ish) to face the day.

Things begin to fall apart. I got in my car and noticed I was low on gas. No problem, I thought. I’ve got this. I pulled into the Hess station and filled the tank. Paid with my debit card. While I was filling the tank, I put the debit card on the trunk of my car. I distinctly remember thinking “Don’t forget the debit card. Boy would it suck to lose your debit card. Ha ha.” (We all know where this is story is headed at this point, right?)

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I got back into my car and drove in to my office. Found a space – filled the older meter with quarters. No problem! Attended a couple of meetings, got some work done, and headed back out to move my car when the 2-hour meter was up. Found a new space, parked, pulled out my wallet to pay the meter with my debit card and…IT WAS GONE OH MY GOD, YOU NEVER EXPECTED THAT, DID YOU?

I searched my car. I searched my jacket pocket. I went through every card in my wallet multiple times. I looked in every likely and unlikely place for the debit card. I knew on some level that it was gone forever — that the triangle of celestial doom had cast it’s evil hoo-doo on my debit card as punishment for my hubris.

Every stranger that passed me on Boylston Street seemed to be laughing at my woe like a Greek chorus. Taunting me.

The wind. It’s important to note that it was a particularly windy day in Copley Square. Back Bay tends to be windier than other areas of town, so on a gusty day, you can find yourself walking into the wind at a 45-degree angle, screaming — but producing no audible sound.

When I finally accepted that the debit card was gone, I fished out some quarters, fed the meter, got my little meter-sticky to attach to the inside of my driver’s side window. Just when I was affixing the meter sticky to the window, a great gust blew up from under my legs, sending my dress up, up, up and into my face, exposing my undercarriage while I struggled to hold onto the very important sticker (bought with the last of my available funds).

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The universe conspired to make this happen.

I don’t understand why Marilyn Monroe seemed to enjoy the gusty up-skirt experience. I guess she didn’t have the meter to contend with, or the astrological admonitions. All I know is that I did not look or feel glamorous in any way. I hope to Christ nobody caught it on camera.

Minutes later, a plastic shopping bag came flying toward my face as I crossed Copley Square to go to my bank. I punched it away with the grim resignation of a hardened soldier.

50 Ways to Give the Finger: #6 – The Guns-A-Blazin’ Finger

The Guns-A-Blazin’ Finger. In a perfect world, there would be no need for the Guns-A-Blazin’ Finger to exist. Its overt intentional stupidity is an affront to the cool, subtle je ne sais quoi of the Classic Finger. So, unless you are an actual rodeo clown or Randy Quaid, keep the G.A.B holstered, cowboy.

What it communicates to the recipient: Yee-haw! Don’t touch my truck! You cain’t fight good ’cause you done gone to school. Whadayou, gay or somethin’? Yee-haw!

When to use it: The G.A.B. Finger has 2 acceptable uses: Ironic, self-aware administration of the G.A.B is (almost) acceptable with friends and family. Non-ironic use is only acceptable at rodeos, saloons, carnivals, and line-dancing events — and then only by actual assholes.

UP NEXT: #7 – The Action Finger

Am I Possessed By a Demon? 6 Crucial Questions

Are you feeling a little…off? Concerned about the possibility of a demonic possession? Ask yourself these 6 questions before performing any rituals to banish evil beings to the infinite, dark purgatory from whence they came.

girl-eating-raw-meat1. What are my eating habits?

Have you taken your paleo diet to extremes, binging on live farm animals and forsaking vegetables altogether? When you do consume simple grains and vegetables, do you find yourself projectile vomiting the contents of your lunch in a 360-degree pattern around the edge of the room without moving your torso? It might be time to purge servant of Beelzebub that has chosen your body as host in the mortal sphere.

scared-mailman2. Have I experienced voice changes?

Does your voice ever change pitch dramatically to a gravelly bass in the middle of a conversation with the bank teller or postman? So embarrassing! Keep in mind that voice changes may just indicate seasonal allergies, not the wrath of a demon whose name shall never be spoken. You might find a humidifier helpful in the short term.



3. Have my feet changed appearance?

Everyone’s feet get tired and cracked, especially if you’ve recently changed your fitness routine. But put down the pumice stone and see an exorcist if your feet suddenly become hoofed or cloven. No amount of lotion can salve the limbs of the Dark Lord’s minions.IMG_0338

505c7a14h.300id.8449m.fillw_24. Has my taste in music suddenly and inexplicably changed?

If you find yourself singing in an ancient language that is incomprehensible at a pitch that cannot be registered by mortals, it might be time to see a priest or shaman.

 

5. Is my face breaking out?

As if you don’t have enough problems, right? Few people realize that adult-onset acne is one of the common signs of demonic possession.

images (1)6. How are others behaving toward me?

Are children running from your terrifying visage when you approach? Have family members tied you to a bed and called a priest or shaman in for a friendly visit? You may be the mortal host to an evil demon or poltergeist. Talk to your doctor.

50 Ways to Give the Finger: #4 – The Mental Finger

IMG_0330The Mental Finger

On the Kung Fu television series, Master Kan advised Caine, his young student, that “Weakness prevails over strength. Gentleness conquers. Become the calm and restful breeze that tames the violent sea.”

Administration of the Mental Finger is an exercise in self-control. It is not for the weak- willed, and can take many years of training to master. The Mental Finger is used when a Continue reading

50 Ways to Give the Finger: #2 – The “I-don’t- even-have-time-for-this” Finger

Photo 2014-09-16 04.19.53 PMThe “I-don’t- even-have-time-for-this” Finger The key to the “I Don’t Even” is the lack of eye contact, because you have places to go, damn it. This form of Fuck You is the equivalent of blowing smoke in the recipient’s face and then turning back to your conversation. Sorry, I had to deal with a moron. Where were we?

What it communicates to the recipient: I have given a shit about many things in my life, but your insignificant ass hardly registers as a blip on my “Fuck That” radar.

When to use it: Stuck in Pike traffic and some moron in a Prius is up your ass with his horn? Flip him the “I Don’t Even.” Getting catcalls from half-drunk college dudes while walking in Kenmore Square? Those dudes deserve the education that an “I Don’t Even” can provide.

UP NEXT: #3: The Mutually Acknowledged Finger 

A Seemingly Endless Loop of Stupid

melted-popsicleI wanted to write something brilliant and profound this weekend, but the heat and humidity in Boston was prohibitive. On Saturday, my apartment was 90 degrees Fahrenheit with a humidity of Oh-Who-Cares-Anyway? It was one of those days that meteorologist Dick Albert used to refer to as “a case of the muggies.” It’s a slow disaster. You envision tossing your less-than-useless warm-blooded body into the harbor, but that would take effort, so you just eat popsicles and watch the veins in your arms swell like firehoses.

I escaped for a couple of hours to a café to write. The place was packed tight with other heat refugees and their smells. I scored a small table, but was wedged between two couples. The couple on my left did not speak, but smiled into each other’s loving gazes as they entwined and then re-entwined their fingers endlessly. Endlessly. From the edge of my vision, I was witness to a good 45 minutes of finger entwinement. It was the manual equivalent of the “I love you more”/”No, I love you more” argument spun into an infinite, real-time, looping gif that can’t be closed, ever.

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 What do you do with that? There’s no law against being an insufferably adorable couple, apparently.

Well, you could turn and be distracted by the couple to the right. The guy was seated right next to me. I couldn’t catch a glance without being very obvious about it, so I can’t comment on him except to say that he had a tall-guy voice, and that he seemed to let the woman do the talking. And the woman – who was seated across from me, was talking non-stop, seemingly about the guy’s troubled relationship – with someone else.

Again – what can you do? As far as I know, I do not have the right to stand and condemn this blatantly obvious manipulation/seduction/ego-twaddling that was happening within arm’s length. I just know that when she twisted her hair around a finger and said “You know, you can definitely stay at my place for as long as you need to – to… clear your head,” that was my cue to knock back my latte and leg it out of there.

Back into the sweaty, hive-like busy streets of Back Bay. I bought new living room drapes. Then I went home, put the drapes up, took another shower, had a popsicle, watched the drapes drape. Because that’s all I had in me.

Screw Happiness: Why I Love Being Irritable

I’ve made my feelings known the benefits of just saying “Fuck It.” Go ahead and say it. It feels good, right? It touches into something genuine. For just a moment, you let go and allow your inner-asshole to emerge, and it rings a bell. Fuck it. Yessss.

Must. Force. Happy. Now.
If you google “Happiness,” you’ll find endless, sometimes conflicting articles touting the appropriate recipe to “Get happy!” The exclamation point implies a level of excitement and enthusiasm that is hard to achieve in life without the help of drugs and/or massive denial of reality. It also sounds like a demand. Do it. Get happy, goddamn it! You’re not happy! What’s wrong with you?

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 Couldn’t we just be a little cranky? Please?

This pressure to be cheerful is ever-present. We view and post selfies with grins so wide it is hard to discern whether the person in the photo is ecstatic in their surroundings or grimacing in pain. We all do it, if we’re being honest. I am as caught up in this happiness craze as anyone, which is to say that intermittently make myself absolutely miserable by Trying! To BE! Happy!!!

And for the record, I’m ok. It’s not a cry for help. But could we cool it we with the never-ending Joy Olympics and aim for something richer and more sustainable? Maybe we could aim to just be content. Or – when life is handing us multiple lemons – we could be angry or sad or distraught about the lemons for a few minutes before throwing a sheet over it and acting like it didn’t happen? “Move along folks. Everything’s happy here. Nothing to see.”

Let’s hear it. I want to hear about your bad day when you’ve had one. I want to laugh about our shared misery – the absurdity of it all. The happy Happy HAPPINESS is giving me a severe case of the creeps. Please make it stop.

A Bad Marriage is a Like a Polyester Shirt.

On the surface, Monday was perfect – sunny, but not too hot. An ordinary workday. And yet, I felt…mysteriously enraged. All day long, this intense, seemingly sourceless rage simmered as I tried to focus on the work at hand. It wasn’t until late afternoon. that I realized my shirt was closing in on my ribcage like a medieval abattoir, but the pain was not intense enough to notice on a conscious level. I spent the day squelching the urge to hurl grenades out my window into Copley Square, but I had no idea what was happening.

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