Wednesday, July 21, 2004

The fucker uses my metaphors. I mean that's crazy and I know it. You can't own a metaphor. Not really. But I have my metaphors. I want to scream keep your fucking mind off my metaphors. And the part of me that is rational, the very small part of me that is rational at this moment, tells me to take a breath and let go and knock it off. But I'm pissed. And I want a witness. I want to tell the whole story and have a witness who gets it. Except of course I'd be telling it from my perspective and that's not the whole truth and to get it you'd have to have the whole truth. And the rational part of me reminds me of all the things I've come up with to save myself from this pain but that's MY FUCKING METAPHOR and I'm pissed and I'm hurt and it is not fair and it's not OK and I'm not OK. Fuck.

And now I've written a post that will no doubt result in me getting bombed with nasty spam all because it's the middle of the afternoon and I need to concentrate and I can't because I'm so fucking pissed off. It's my fucking metaphor you can't have it. You can't use it. You can have everything else. You do have everything else. Leave my fucking metaphor alone.

But it isn't mine. I don't own it. Of course. Of course. I know that. I need to breathe and let go and let go and let go. But it so fucking not fair. It just isn't. It's just not. What am I going to do with all this rage?

I'm so mad. I'm so fucking mad. I'm just so fucking mad.

Don't anybody tell me to calm down. Of course I'll calm down. I'll take a walk. I'll put this out of my mind. I'll let go and let go and let go. I'll do the work. I will. Do the work. I will do the fucking work. I'll be fine. I'll be here now. I'll see more clearly. I'll see things for what the are. I will do the work. The fucking miserable work.

It's my fucking metaphor. You can not use it.