I’m not much for emotion.
That might sound a bit terse, but it is accurate.
I can probably count the number of times I’ve cried on one hand—maybe two hands if we’re counting times I got hit in the stones—and I really don’t go the other direction and get ragingly angry all that often either.
Does this mean I’m a bubbling cauldron waiting to explode in a multi-state killing spree that leaves dozens of innocent people dead in my wake?
Maybe, anything is possible, I guess.
For the most part, I think it just means that I’ve learned how to deal with my anger and/or sadness in other ways.
Today we’re going to focus on my anger-management skills.
You see, Faithful Readers, there was a time back in my youth when I didn’t have any anger-management skills.
When I got mad, I turned into a punk-ass little beeyotch.
I’d throw things, I’d break things, I’d curse, I’d scream, I’d beat the ever-living dog-piss out of my little brother (we’re all good now) and when I was done with all that the anger was gone.
As I got older—and received a plethora of well-deserved ass-kickings—I learned that there were probably better ways to deal with my anger. So I quit breaking things and quit beating the crap out of my brother and moved on to many other things.
There was running, baseball practice, writing, sleeping (an odd reaction if ever there was one), running again, baseball practice again (I thought I had a mighty fine fastball at one point), running yet again and eventually when I got to college drinking.
Drinking probably wasn’t the best option, because when you’re full of rage, half-a-dozen Bud tall boys ain’t going to do anything to calm you down.
So after a short period of drunken, ill-advised decisions to punch holes in things (NEVER a wise move)…I replaced that with my current anger suppressant – eating.
Well, eating meat, to be more specific.
When I’m all pissed off about something there is nothing more likely to calm me down than a perfectly cooked (read: medium) bacon cheeseburger with all the fixins.
Today for instance, I had an insatiable urge to bludgeon a co-worker to death with a crowbar before dragging his/her bloody remains over to the Charles River, where I would then give him/her a proper Viking funeral by using one of the MIT sailing club dinghies and a few homemade Molotov Cocktails courtesy of the fine folks at The Muddy Charles Pub.
Instead I huffed and puffed a few times and wandered over to Fresco’s and snagged myself one of the aforementioned rage-sapping bacon cheeseburgers.
To make things even better they gave me a free side of coleslaw—which I can only assume was rapidly approaching an expiration date—and the fine musical-stylings of Journey came blaring over the radio.
By the time I left Fresco’s, I was out of rage and full of meat. As such, said co-worker survived the day and most-likely he/she will survive for many more days.
Clearly my “eating to devour rage” game plan is working and working well.
My only worry is that if things like this keep happening, I’m going to be one very angry fatty!
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