You wouldn't like it if I touched your things.

September 15, 2015

I. Hate.

I know that sounds awful, really, but it's true. I try to be an upbeat, positive person, but there's so many things in the world that trigger my fury these days that it's almost impossible not to be a little surly about, oh, everything. Mind you, 'these days' is something of a misnomer, since these same things have been going on forever, but still. I just notice them a lot more, apparently.

The side effect of this is that, I usually need to be properly fired up about something or other to really cut loose with my writing. This also sounds awful, I suppose, but barring an overdose on caffeine, a good dose of rage is usually required for me to actually articulate the static floating around inside my head into comprehensible material, as opposed to simply discharging an inordinate amount of profanity.

The only problem with this is that I haven't really been angry of late. Sure, I've been annoyed by this and that, here and there, but on the whole my life has generally taken a turn for the better. Even with me working over fifty hours each week, and me and the sexy other having been busy preparing for our exodus from the mire of monoculture that is Miamisburg, Ohio. Yeah, it's been all right.

But yesterday, my hate was polarized into a laser-like beam of destruction.

I was in the break room taking my break, as is expected, doing my best to drown out the willfully ignorant teabaggers that are still going on about various nontroversies over the last few years. I went to grab my jug of tea out of the fridge to refill my cup, turning my back for only a few seconds, only to find that my new laptop - the device I'm writing this on, in fact - had vanished.

Poof. In only five seconds, someone managed to displace my computer, a gift from my wonderful wife. I did not see who had done this, as there was a throng of clowns shuffling out of the room at the time, their break - and opportunity to whine about Emailghazicare or whatever nontroversy - now over. So I run out of the room and eyeball these nitwits, and can't see my computer. Insert panic and fury here.

After fifteen minutes of furiously turning over the break room, I finally found the darn thing. Someone thought they were being clever, and slid it down the side of a chair so that one couldn't see it unless they looked right at it from above. I assure you, however, that it is not cool messing around with someone else's property. Much less something that has particular monetary and personal value.

Ha ha ha, you completely ruined Denny's day for a cheap laugh. Good for you, you witless turds.

So angry that I was shaking, and probably turning bright red with rage, I inexplicably completed my twelve hour shift without stuffing anyone into a jet turbine or recycle bin. Mind you, I did rattle off a probably incoherent e mail to my boss explaining to her that the next time anyone touches my things without my explicit permission, I'm simply calling the cops. So expect police up here often.

Because people like to screw with my things here. Whether it's what I bring for lunch or supplies I bought with my own money or, now, my wondrous writing implement here, the colostomy bags posing as workers here at this dump don't know how to keep their slimy hands off of other peoples' things. And I'm dead serious, too. No matter how much the HR people whine about it, someone's going to get tased.

So the roundabout point I'm making here is that, now that I've got a plethora of unused bile sloshing around in my brain, I just might be able to do a bit of writing. It'd be nice to make use of the office I'm actually going to have to take care of Denny things once it's all set up, after all - this assuming I can find the actual time to do so with all the overtime I'm working of late.

But I think I'll make me some time.

firebomb@obnoxiousjerk.com