Bottled

Sure, I’ve been sad, depressed, lonely.  I’ve also felt happy, satisfied, and loved.  But it’s rare that I am angry.

Anger is bottled fuel.  I can feel my body vibrating on it, wound up, ready to push off from starting line, to blast off from the earth.  Ready to throw the first punch.

I like anger.  There is a perverse sense of pleasure that accompanies it.  Perhaps that is what they call “self-righteousness.”  It’s like the hint of sweetness in dark chocolate, or the twisted pleasure in saying something to making someone else uncomfortable.  Whatever it is, it feels damn good.

The problem with bottled anger is that it’s hard to control.  And that it could throw off its chains at any inappropriate moment, like, for example, a dinner party.