Pissed Off Today...

"The glass of wine was so big, and she'd shrunk to such a degree, that it looked like she was trying to carry a fishbowl to her mouth every time she drank. "

This is your thing, Bill... this is your golden nugget. You peppert these little nuggets through your writing, and I betcha you just do it shooting from the hip. I betcha you didn't sit there thinking, hmm... what can I say to evoke an image... how can I bring this alive... I betcha it just comes flying out of your ass. I say that because you do it so often. It always impresses the shit out of me.. and pisses me off a little because I have to work so hard for stuff like this that I rarely have the energy to make it happen... or I just choose not to use up that energy...

Down in the dumps today... big fight with the wife last night... trying desperately to hand it over to God, trying to see my wrong in it all, when all I want to do is tell her to eat shit and walk away...
So hard to let it all go when I just want to go out in the garage, get a baseball bat, and tear up everything in the house... the fridge, the three-thousand dollar HD tv, the fireplace, the cute little paintings on the wall... just smash it all up, slamming the bat around without thought, just complete rage, smashin, crunching, loving how much the impact hurts my hands... the dog looking at me like I've gone fucking nuts... the cat hiding under the couch... setting the blender up on the counter like a tee-ball and then launching it through the fucking sliding glass door out into the grass, right in front of our zillion dollar conservation lot upgrade bullshit... mirrors... yes... plinking them carefully in the middle to get the best effect - a crinkled seven-year spiderweb of rage... dresser drawers... why not just fucking go for it, knock the toilet off its mount and send the water line into orbit, spewing water out across the eighteen-inch ceramic tiles cut on the fucking diagonal... all of it... the precious dining room set, hobble the bitch, knock each leg to a different length so it totters back and forth in the dust... hunt down the cat... why not... let the dog have something to play with after I drive the truck across the living room...

There... I handed it all over to God.
Doesn't that make me feel better God? Don't I feel wonderful now that I've handed it all over and looked for what I did wrong and made amends and buried the fact that I'm right and I have every right to smash things until my fingers bleed?