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Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 22, 2000 || 1:12 am

“Well, once again I am angry and without…”

A friend of mine posted that comment on her web journal. It makes me wanna cry.

Wanna know why / Why it makes me wanna cry? / Well I’ll heave a heavy sigh / And once again try to fucking explain…

Lemme give you some background:
It has been my experience as of late that others my age or thereabouts pretty much fall into two distinct categories:
a) those not worthy of speaking to (and don’t you start your railing-against-me-and-my-elitist-tendencies bullshit, okay? Take it up with my father…he is the one that stoked the shit as I was learning to string syllables) and
b) those of us, like the pal I mentioned previously, who are “angry and without”.

See, this is the thing…we don’t always know that we are angry and without. The without is definitely the variable in this particular equation, i.e. “I am without gas, so I can’t go anywhere (literally? theoretically? read in to it all ye wanteth, oh thou gentlest of readers)”, “I am without a decent job that fulfills me and makes use of my God-givens”, “I am without motivation, so what the fuck?” and so on and so forth. Just fill in the little blank after the word ‘without’ and there you have it. Angst made to order.

The anger part is the catch. We piddle along, snatching moments of joy (and don’t get me WRONG, that is as it SHOULD BE) and the anger sits dismissed in a colorless corner like a petulant child. We forget because we can and because we have to, because it would make us eating-mashed-bananas-drawing-on-the-walls-with-fecal-matter loony. Batshit. Crazed out of our motherfucking gourds with the intensity of it.

And then SHAZAM!!!!, somebody or something reminds us of it. It’s as simple as this: me in my jammies, cramming down Wheaties with granola and American Lit notes while carrying on a conversation. All of the sudden I am told, “You are just so fucking angry.” Whoa. Hold on. Wait a minute. You’re right….I am angry. “Thanks for reminding me. Now hand me that pen; I have a letter to write. What exactly was that editor’s address??”

Tell me one more time–what is our purpose?

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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