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rinueI don't get angry very often. Oh, sure, I get righteously outraged, but we both know it's not the same thing. While one stems from ideology, the other is intensely personal. And although my delusions of reference dictate that I have control over things like stoplights, it is rare that I actually take things personally. Or, well, I do, regularly, but my reaction tends to be occasional weeping and a fair amount of shaking my fist at the sky. More often than not, I turn it into some kind of comedic routine.
Anger is something entirely different. I have set up dozens of mechanisms to avoid it, (one being the aforementioned comedy, another the crying, and yet another drinking Coca-Cola Classic,) because as much as we might joke about it, Romie angry is not something anyone ever wants to see. In its mildest form, it dictates that I suddenly change address without warning anyone; if it's minor enough, I do eventually come back - but that effectively requires that the person I've left is my spouse. Much stronger, and we start dealing with homicide.
Let me tell you: I'm fucking pissed off at the moment.
To get me to this point usually takes something subtle. Ciro will get it if I say it's about whether or not chili has beans in it; fans of Silverado will understand if I say I have to go back for the dog. It's whatever the miniscule thing is that I suddenly find very important, until it overtakes an entire situation.
It has to do, as you might imagine, with the situation at Clinton House.
Thing 1: The Long Distance Bill
As you may or may not know, I do various odd jobs around Clinton House under the name of free room and board. If anyone were to pay attention, they would realize that it is far from free -- I do everything from laundry to dishes to making dinner. I scrape the paint out of crown moulding. I refile the videos. I scrub the toilets. If anyone had a long enough memory, they would recall that I moved here as a favor to Stretch because nobody else was willing to do it.
That's right.
A favor, out of love.
I am an angel, not an employee.
Despite this, I deal with a lot of shit. It pisses me off, but I accept it because I understand that everyone's under stress -- which is the reason they need me around. I'll do the Cinderella racket and whistle a happy song because I have an appreciation for melodrama.
But.
They've suddenly decided I'm paying for the long distance calls I made last month. Arbitrarily, it does not fall under the auspices of room and board.
The total comes to $15.81.
This is one fifteenth of what either of them make an hour. On the other hand, it is more than one fifth of what I make in a week.
This is stupid and petty enough that it's had me irritated ever since I got back from Boston and found out about it.
Thing Two: Adding Insult to Injury
Three times, Uncle Rex has insulted one of my best friends for no reason. I don't care what anybody says; that's shit. Unacceptible.
Thing Three: The Camel's Back
Here is the actual thing that's making me angry:
Moments before I began writing this entry, Stretch decided she needed to check her e-mail and kicked me offline. I can understand that. However, she decided it was so important that she disconnected me instead of letting me disconnect myself. Just unhooked my telephone cable from the wall socket.
I'm fucking moving.
The Rasors, of course, will not know this until I'm already gone.
I give it two weeks, maybe three.
Anger is something entirely different. I have set up dozens of mechanisms to avoid it, (one being the aforementioned comedy, another the crying, and yet another drinking Coca-Cola Classic,) because as much as we might joke about it, Romie angry is not something anyone ever wants to see. In its mildest form, it dictates that I suddenly change address without warning anyone; if it's minor enough, I do eventually come back - but that effectively requires that the person I've left is my spouse. Much stronger, and we start dealing with homicide.
Let me tell you: I'm fucking pissed off at the moment.
To get me to this point usually takes something subtle. Ciro will get it if I say it's about whether or not chili has beans in it; fans of Silverado will understand if I say I have to go back for the dog. It's whatever the miniscule thing is that I suddenly find very important, until it overtakes an entire situation.
It has to do, as you might imagine, with the situation at Clinton House.
Thing 1: The Long Distance Bill
As you may or may not know, I do various odd jobs around Clinton House under the name of free room and board. If anyone were to pay attention, they would realize that it is far from free -- I do everything from laundry to dishes to making dinner. I scrape the paint out of crown moulding. I refile the videos. I scrub the toilets. If anyone had a long enough memory, they would recall that I moved here as a favor to Stretch because nobody else was willing to do it.
That's right.
A favor, out of love.
I am an angel, not an employee.
Despite this, I deal with a lot of shit. It pisses me off, but I accept it because I understand that everyone's under stress -- which is the reason they need me around. I'll do the Cinderella racket and whistle a happy song because I have an appreciation for melodrama.
But.
They've suddenly decided I'm paying for the long distance calls I made last month. Arbitrarily, it does not fall under the auspices of room and board.
The total comes to $15.81.
This is one fifteenth of what either of them make an hour. On the other hand, it is more than one fifth of what I make in a week.
This is stupid and petty enough that it's had me irritated ever since I got back from Boston and found out about it.
Thing Two: Adding Insult to Injury
Three times, Uncle Rex has insulted one of my best friends for no reason. I don't care what anybody says; that's shit. Unacceptible.
Thing Three: The Camel's Back
Here is the actual thing that's making me angry:
Moments before I began writing this entry, Stretch decided she needed to check her e-mail and kicked me offline. I can understand that. However, she decided it was so important that she disconnected me instead of letting me disconnect myself. Just unhooked my telephone cable from the wall socket.
I'm fucking moving.
The Rasors, of course, will not know this until I'm already gone.
I give it two weeks, maybe three.
