Rage. An existential comedy in Parts.
What do I do with rage? PART 1. the only place I express it? Is within. I dig at my insides with shit talk and perfectionism My rage eats my guts alive I starve or indulge my body. I cut myself up. And sew myself up together again. My cells sting with poisonous, undigested resentment and festering anger It drips out of me. Slowly. In cups of coffee and glasses of cool lemonade. My rage infects every relationship I have. My kids. My x-partner My current partner my family my students my employees my friends my community my goddess my god. I am not violent, mind you.* My rage drips into curt conversations and whining half/yelling spurts of insults or demands Adult/almost 40/pouting and spouting I don't express it much I guess, because I'm ashamed. Who am I to have rage? The most privileged of the privileged. No one needs to hear from me about mine. But it's not just mine. I feel the rage of my brothers and sister...