I’d like a lifetime supply of plinky prompts. And headache medication.
I was going to say money, but with my luck the amount would be dependant on the length of ones life, and I’d be awarded fifty bucks and then promptly get hit by a bus.
And then what if I asked for something and then next week my lifestyle changed so that I no longer needed it? That would sincerely irritate me.
Never mind, I’ve got it. A lifetime supply of lifetime supplies. Whenever they’re ready to supply that, I’ll supply them with a list.
There’s all kinds of smarts. Book smarts and people smarts and street smarts and fashion smarts. The more you say the word ‘smarts’ the dumber it sounds.
It’s possible to be accomplished and inept, intelligent and stupid, perceptive and obtuse, all at the same time.
So I guess the smartest people I know are probably the ones who realize exactly how unsmart they really are.
And they’re all smart enough to keep the fact of their ignorance to themselves and well hidden.
I’d go back to Victorian London in 1888 and join the match girl’s strike. Because being one of the 1400 women and girls who effectively shut down a factory in the interests of being treated fairly must have been a wild emotional mix of fear and euphoria for everyone involved.
They learned the power of numbers and that it’s possible to right a wrong. Or maybe a lot of them just went along with the crowd to take a break from dipping those damned matches all day long.
The best way to blow off steam when you’re angry is to back away from the situation, close your eyes, inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth. Kind of like breathing your way through labor pains. Deep breathing always helps me put things in perspective. Kind of de-fogs the brain.
Then I try to drum up some empathy for the idiot who made me mad. Taking the other person’s point of view isn’t easy, but if you can do it your righteous indignation is more likely to disipate. And then you need to ask yourself what difference all of this will make in an hour. Tomorrow. Next week. A year from now.
Anger comes in many degrees. It can build up slowly to a breaking point, or it can hit you like a sledgehammer right between your eyes. I get annoyed and have my little hissy fits. Irritated, exasperated, peeved, impatient. I whine and I grumble. I think that’s pretty normal.
It’s the raging, violent, passionate and infuriated blow ups that scare me, whether I’m the cause or the object or the source. Shoot yourself or take a pill. I don’t know what the answer is. Just get away from me.
Well I certainly hope that was helpful. And didn’t piss you off.