No matter who you are, where you come from, or which spiritual school of thought you subscribe to; at some point in your adult life, you have told an inanimate object to f*ck itself. Maybe you break bottles in your garage, or punch holes in the dry wall. I, personally, have invited every single one of my earthly possessions to eat a dick at least once. Even though these objects hold no bias nor bear any grudge, they must suffer our abuse. For if we direct that aggression at the true objects of our rage (each other) half of us would be felons, and the other half would have been beaten to death before we hit grade school.

I try to not lose my temper, and for the most part I’m successful. I once calmly waited 20 minutes at a drive-thru window just for a milk shake. What was my reward for such monk-like stoicism? A greasy paper bag full of processed meats and cheeses. Whereas most would have only left with high blood pressure, I was gifted with a treasure trove of delicious treats. All for me, and all for free, just for not being an ass hat about it. Granted, I was loopy on painkillers and had nothing better to do, but that’s not the point.

The point is that patience pays off (and drugs help). Therefore, I practice it at every conscious opportunity (patience, not drugs). We all have days when the smallest thing pushes us right up to the edge of incoherent rage. Like a co-worker coming to a dead stop in a high traffic area; a group of teenage girls laughing just one octave too high; or a judgmental old man glaring at you like it’s your fault he left his family in a communist country. Some days, I want to get right in his wrinkly face and ask him what the fuck he’s looking at. But I don’t. Because screaming at strangers is frowned upon. (Also a great way to get tased)

Instead, I suppress it, and wait for the appropriate context: “a safe environment” where I can “inflict minimal harm to myself and others.”* Allow me to illustrate.  Imagine, if you will, dropping a pencil under a table. You go to grab it and miss. You reach for it again, and miss. The frustration builds. Then, you reach a third time, and alas! You got it! But as you lift your head to get up, it smacks the underside of the table, and the pencil falls. Now, what I should do, is take a deep breath and realize that I am the source of my own frustration. What I do do, is snap the pencil in half, flip the table, and tell it I’m glad its family’s dead.

Harsh for people. Fine for tables. They don’t have feelings.

Now, I know my psychiatrist would say something like “It’s healthier to channel your emotions into more creative outlets, like yoga, or cross-stitching,”  but he no longer has vocal chords. So he can’t. So, I say why settle for self-improvement, when self-destruction is so much more gratifying?

Footnotes

*Goddamn shrinks think they know everything.