I walk around wanting to get in a fight. I bump into people, yell things at cars and make faces at people like they stink or something, hoping they’ll get pissed and take a swing at me. Then I can lay into them. I can only wonder what I’d do. When we were reading Camus’ The Stranger in Contemporary Lit Class the teacher asked us why Mersault shot the guy five or six times. I said because he shot him once so he thought he may as well shoot him again. The teacher said, you’re assuming he enjoyed shooting him. I don’t think she understood me. I meant that if he’s opened the Pandora’s Box of shooting the guy he may as well explore it. Watch the bullets go in. See what they do. If I was in a fight I’d want to bash the guy’s head into a wall. I’d wanna throw him through a window. And yet I don’t understand where that anger comes from. I’m such a sensitive person. I had tears in my eyes when I took my dog to get desexed because I couldn’t bear the thought of them cutting into this defenceless little thing. I can’t watch the news or read the newspaper. I know that Bret Easton Ellis read about people getting tortured in Concentration Camps and Sarah Kane read about soccer hooligans sucking people’s eyeballs out and I know that it destroyed them. I know it did. I want it to be a surfer jock that I fight. I want him to look at me and laugh and think me a pussy. He’ll be arrogant and bored and full of testosterone. He won’t get that I’m arrogant. That I’m fucking bored. And full of testosterone. Plus I have thousands of years of anger inside of me. I have twelve dimensions of anger inside of me. I have anger that stretches from the birth of civilization to the bitter fucking end. And when I find him I’m gonna tear his head clean off his shoulders.
Lear- When we are born, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of fools.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment