I Wish I Were Nice

I guess it goes without saying that I am an irritable person and therefore I am an irritable blogger. I wish it weren't true, I wish I were nice. Or, at the least I wish I were sane and didn't behave in an aberrant manner. I wish I could balance being so coldhearted one moment and so hotheaded the next with being some kind of even-natured pleasant soul. But I can get mad at the drop of a hat these days.

I walk about the house sometimes, getting angry at one inanimate object after another, including doorknobs, washcloths, light switches, drinking glasses, pencils, the garage door opener, the clothes washer, cabinet doors, screen doors, drawers, oversized garbage cans and undersized garbage bags. I curse aloud at Coke cans for making noise as loud as a bullet when I open one. I despise the repetitive mind-killing commercials I've been watching for the past six months or so.

I get mad at those I know well and at family members and even at people who might be able to do me some good some day. The oddest thing is that I get mad at other bloggers sometimes, people I don't even know. Sometimes they comment about me and use a word or phrase carelessly and I act like somebody just got my leg wet on purpose—you know how that occurs! And then I have to ask, "Why the hell would you say something like that?" And then it turns out they have no idea of having said anything much! No, most of them are not like my family, sentimental as a bunch of sick sheep one instant, then ready to quarrel like jumpy mad dogs (Irish setters come to mind) in an instant, unwilling to hear a single word the other party says.

I wish I were nice, sure, but it's in the blood, and I don't expect I'll ever be able to do a damn thing about it. Other members of my family don't treat Everyone like that, just each other. I myself am egalitarian and DO treat everyone that way. I'm just a mad dog, I don't know why. Sometimes, if not most times, I even bite myself. If you were thinking about coming here, about linking to my site, keep me on a short leash and yourself on a long one so you can pull yourself back home in helter-skelter time. When you get there, you can pull the leash back, withdraw the link, and check to see if you have all your fingers and toes.

I wish I were somebody else, I do—but not anybody that I know at present. Sometimes I wish I were dead, but that might be worse than merely being someone else. It's amazingly difficult most of the time to figure out what would be worse. Lately, though, it seems like whatever comes Next will be worse.

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