How My Temper Throws A Fit
I’m an effete intellectual who likes to cuss. Well, maybe I don’t like it, but I generally do it without much restraint. I might say “Goddamn” 5 or 10 times in as few seconds when something goes wrong. I’ve begun to have neuropathy in my fingertips and therefore fumble a lot of things. I drop pills, can’t button shirts easily, probably couldn’t twiddle your nipples if there was a cash prize for it.
I get irritable, I always have. I think it’s something genetic—at any rate I have a cousin who’s much the same way. Like me, his anger exceeds all forbearance, not to mention that he hits the roof! I think he dreams of chasing down all bad drivers and giving them bloody justice! Fortunately, he doesn’t catch many. Come to think of it, I’ve had those thoughts myself, back before I got diabetes and began to suffer from such frequent fatigue. I’m a lot more wimpy about it now, but only because it takes most of my energy to pay attention to my driving! I can no longer afford to let my temper throw a fit for fear I’ll drive off the road or hit another car.
Still, walking around the homestead, I cuss. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn!” God may, but it won’t shut up my autonomic cursing. It’s disgusting when you start to drop everything on the floor and can’t always plug in small electronic conveniences. I have a lot of shirts with snaps instead of buttons, and I’m grateful for that these days. It’s not a matter of style, but how long it takes to get dressed in a house on fire in the middle of the night! Or just hoping to be dressed by breakfast! Sometimes I can’t unbutton my pants very fast in an excretory or sexual emergency. Or something like that.
Whether you’re fond of me or not, you probably wouldn’t wish this sort of degradation on me.
Rush (Dopehead) Limbaugh or Jerry (Pissy) Falwell or the President of Iran, maybe—but not (Goddamn it!) me!
I’m an effete intellectual who likes to cuss. Well, maybe I don’t like it, but I generally do it without much restraint. I might say “Goddamn” 5 or 10 times in as few seconds when something goes wrong. I’ve begun to have neuropathy in my fingertips and therefore fumble a lot of things. I drop pills, can’t button shirts easily, probably couldn’t twiddle your nipples if there was a cash prize for it.
I get irritable, I always have. I think it’s something genetic—at any rate I have a cousin who’s much the same way. Like me, his anger exceeds all forbearance, not to mention that he hits the roof! I think he dreams of chasing down all bad drivers and giving them bloody justice! Fortunately, he doesn’t catch many. Come to think of it, I’ve had those thoughts myself, back before I got diabetes and began to suffer from such frequent fatigue. I’m a lot more wimpy about it now, but only because it takes most of my energy to pay attention to my driving! I can no longer afford to let my temper throw a fit for fear I’ll drive off the road or hit another car.
Still, walking around the homestead, I cuss. “Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn!” God may, but it won’t shut up my autonomic cursing. It’s disgusting when you start to drop everything on the floor and can’t always plug in small electronic conveniences. I have a lot of shirts with snaps instead of buttons, and I’m grateful for that these days. It’s not a matter of style, but how long it takes to get dressed in a house on fire in the middle of the night! Or just hoping to be dressed by breakfast! Sometimes I can’t unbutton my pants very fast in an excretory or sexual emergency. Or something like that.
Whether you’re fond of me or not, you probably wouldn’t wish this sort of degradation on me.
Rush (Dopehead) Limbaugh or Jerry (Pissy) Falwell or the President of Iran, maybe—but not (Goddamn it!) me!
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Abandon hope, all ye who enter here! (At least put on your socks and pants.)