Random rants, comments on life, words, people, and art

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Count Again


Sometimes…

… an image pops up in this comic that just makes my day.

Like this one.


I have the dumb

shaunI think I might be having a breakdown… not a nervous breakdown or a psychotic breakdown or fuckingbatshitcrazy breakdown…  but something’s not right in my head this week.

Every morning I’ve wanted to hit someone as soon as I’ve woken up.  For four days in row now, I wake up, curse, fulfill morning ablutions, and then get modestly angry at reality.  And I want to hit someone… like I want to backhand the annoying little bitch in line at Starbucks who won’t shut up about whateverthehellinanebullshit she was spouting off about in the most annoying voice ever known to man; or I want to rear-end the grandma in the SUV that’s taller than she is on Kirkwood this evening, who’s driving with two feet so I never know when the hell she’s really slowing down–and I don’t want to rear-end her so I can hurt her car: I want to stop her, so I can get out of the car and strangle her.

Urges. I’ve got urges.  That’s it.  I had this nice daydream about being arrested for these things while I sat at a stoplight.  The cop–the bad cop, of course, ’cause the good cop is off getting coffee or some shit–asks me if I did it. “Of course not,” I reply.  “I had the urge, obviously, but I didn’t act on it.”

“You didn’t act on it! You still had the urge, dirtbag (it’s not an original cop script, sorry)”

“It’s not illegal to have urges.”

“Sure it’s not,” Bad Cop says. “You freak.”

“For instance,” cool-me-in-my-daydream spouts off, “if I tell you I couldn’t have strangled that stupid old bag because I was at your place seeing to your wife’s satisfactions, you’d have the urge to hit me.  But just the urge, because you know if you do hit me it’ll be on tape and then my laywer will get you for assault.”  And then cool-me-in-my-dreams smiled like a prick at Bad Cop.

And then the light changed, so I can’t be sure, but I suspect if I’d allowed my subconscious to continue, cool-me-in-my-daydream would’ve gotten the shit kicked out of him.

And now I’m narrating my blog posts.  I think my subconscious is stalking me.  God damn it.


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