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Rage. From 0 to 100 in the click of a mouse. At the end of Google News search for my best friend's name. Best friend. I always have to insist on the best part of it, which is the worse part of it.
Her. The best friend who's dead. The best famous friend who'll never die on Google News.
Rage is a lion within me that will attack any predator in sight. Except, unlike the lioness, I go hunting for predators if there aren't any within sight. Google News - I go there every so often to hunt my baby lions' predators: my best friend is a baby lion. She's dead. She ain't needing protecting.
Rage. From leading a pure, zen life to feeling my insides screaming for chaos. A trip to the corner dep. Beer and cigarettes. Now we can go on Google News, or better yet, onto the discussion boards. The discussion boards - the ones Mrs. E says I should not go visit - are filled my baby lions' predators. Women who've become their prostitute label on them are my baby lions. Don't grade them, deconstruct them in 10, 9, 8, 7 and so on out of 10s body parts. Don't tell me it was great or you didn't get enough bang for your buck. Don't degrade them or I will go in a rage.
Rage. A thing I put in a little box in my mind; a rubber ball bouncing chaotically off the walls of my skull.
I used to express it. When I was still posting on the discussion boards. But I'm not allowed to post on discussion boards because it's supposed to be counter-condusive. To therapy and to the goal - saving my lion children. You don't go around distributing flyers to hyenas explaining that baby lions aren't theirs to eat. Hyenas don't read.
I used to be able to call up my best friend when rage came up. Even when she was still around I maybe called her one out of 10 rage moments. When rage comes, that always calls for the dep.
I've gotten in a lot of rages recently. I got into one when I read some girl post a list of client types - a nice list. Like the "loving client", the "pragmatic client", "the hobbyist". I got in a rage because that was a bullshit marketing gimmic. I wrote my own list and posted it and then deleted it when the girl agreed that she was marketing herself, and that my list was true, could she borrow it for an upcoming post on "bad" clients? Rage. Delete. I've often thought of deleting myself to get over the rage.
I got in a rage when I discovered that my best friend's ex managed to publish a book with my best friend's name on it as co-author and with my best friend's friend I'd never heard of until she tried to be friends with me - to be able to tell all her friends she was friends with me. I sent her a nasty message on Facebook outlining my naïvety.
Rage. Something that gets me no where in life, just more enraged. Something that keeps me tied to my computer instead of living rage-free moments as I'm able to live when I'm zen. Take a walk. Breathe fresh air instead of the chemicals of cigarette smoke.
Her. The best friend who's dead. The best famous friend who'll never die on Google News.
Rage is a lion within me that will attack any predator in sight. Except, unlike the lioness, I go hunting for predators if there aren't any within sight. Google News - I go there every so often to hunt my baby lions' predators: my best friend is a baby lion. She's dead. She ain't needing protecting.
Rage. From leading a pure, zen life to feeling my insides screaming for chaos. A trip to the corner dep. Beer and cigarettes. Now we can go on Google News, or better yet, onto the discussion boards. The discussion boards - the ones Mrs. E says I should not go visit - are filled my baby lions' predators. Women who've become their prostitute label on them are my baby lions. Don't grade them, deconstruct them in 10, 9, 8, 7 and so on out of 10s body parts. Don't tell me it was great or you didn't get enough bang for your buck. Don't degrade them or I will go in a rage.
Rage. A thing I put in a little box in my mind; a rubber ball bouncing chaotically off the walls of my skull.
I used to express it. When I was still posting on the discussion boards. But I'm not allowed to post on discussion boards because it's supposed to be counter-condusive. To therapy and to the goal - saving my lion children. You don't go around distributing flyers to hyenas explaining that baby lions aren't theirs to eat. Hyenas don't read.
I used to be able to call up my best friend when rage came up. Even when she was still around I maybe called her one out of 10 rage moments. When rage comes, that always calls for the dep.
I've gotten in a lot of rages recently. I got into one when I read some girl post a list of client types - a nice list. Like the "loving client", the "pragmatic client", "the hobbyist". I got in a rage because that was a bullshit marketing gimmic. I wrote my own list and posted it and then deleted it when the girl agreed that she was marketing herself, and that my list was true, could she borrow it for an upcoming post on "bad" clients? Rage. Delete. I've often thought of deleting myself to get over the rage.
I got in a rage when I discovered that my best friend's ex managed to publish a book with my best friend's name on it as co-author and with my best friend's friend I'd never heard of until she tried to be friends with me - to be able to tell all her friends she was friends with me. I sent her a nasty message on Facebook outlining my naïvety.
Rage. Something that gets me no where in life, just more enraged. Something that keeps me tied to my computer instead of living rage-free moments as I'm able to live when I'm zen. Take a walk. Breathe fresh air instead of the chemicals of cigarette smoke.
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