Irrational Responses

Some days it’s the little shit that gets you down. Today is one of those days. A minor confrontation in my fencing class has had me riled up for hours, though there’s no reason for it. I was in the right; I refrained from calling the offending party a bitch to her face; it wasn’t a big deal. But I’m still angry about it. I’m angry about having to call her out on her behavior in the first place. I’m angry that she had the audacity to call me a bitch when I was trying to get her head back in the game for the sake of everyone’s time, grades, and patience. I’m angry because I’m probably PMS-ing right now and there’s neither chocolate nor a plate of nachos in sight.

And because I’m already irrationally ticked off at having to be the bad cop in what is essentially my anger and stress management class, little sayings and personal philosophies are stoking my fire of ire. The idea that anger is power is the one that’s really keeping me on this path of ‘I’d punch something if I didn’t feel like shit.’ I don’t know why this idea is so offensive to me right now. Oh wait. Yes I do.

Because at one point in time, I truly and honestly believed there was power in my anger. There wasn’t really; anger was and still is just anger, and the only person it affects is and always will be me. But I was in middle school and my fury at life was the only thing I felt even remotely in control of.

The thing it, I’m not 11 going on 16 anymore. Anger is not what fuels my aspirations, my choices, my very existence. I would like to believe that I’ve grown up a little bit, and evolved beyond hate as my driving force. Upgraded to ethanol from oil. Hybrid Maria, if you will. I digress.

I used to enjoy my anger, I found power in it. But now, my anger feels like a disease, like this sick, crawling thing that wants to drag me down and never let me be happy again. And compounding this is the knowledge that I’m feeling this way because some little cheerleader reject wasn’t doing what she was supposed to and everyone suffered a little from it. Not a lot, but a little.

Okay, rant over. Time to go nab some free food and watch movies in the Q lounge. If I’m lucky, they’ll have those delicious mint chocolate brownies.

But upon further reflection, if I’m going to be this whiny all the time, I may as well go back to using my old Livejournal.

Ah well.

Frick it.



About Morgan Maria D'Isidoro

Morgan Maria D'Isidoro has lived in Baltimore, MD for most of her life, saving a handful of failed escape attempts. Given the murder rates, she'll probably die here too. Morgan is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry, a musician of dubious quality, cat aficionado, art history fangirl, kitchen sorceress, recovering pyromaniac, accomplished liar, and an all around person of questionable employability.
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