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Something is wrong with me.   —   Frustration

What is it about talk of the morning weather that makes me want to punch people in the face? Why is it that when I see a woman balancing her laptop case, and her gym bag, and her latte, and her issue of Vogue, while wearing high heels, talking on her cell phone, and smoking a cigarette, I want to push her over? Why is it when I spot men in cornflower blue button up shirts and tan slacks with shiny shoes do I get nauseous? Or why when I hear two people talking on the subway about the stock market, do I want to cry?

Is there something wrong with me?

I listen to the small talk in the elevator on my way to the 11th floor and almost as a reflex I roll my eyes to the words "baby"; "late"; "cold"; "Bob". I come into the office and as I listen to Mr. Tan Slacks talk to Mr. Blue Shirt about the reality television shows he watched the night before I envision myself turning into the Hulk and smashing cubicles and breaking computers over their heads. I walk down the street and see the Post with it's tacky and lamely witty headline "CoreBlam-O", and I want to set fire to the newsstand.

Have I always been like this?

I see people smoking cigarettes and I get flashes of the charred insides of their lungs and see images of cancer that looks like cauliflower taking form inside their throats and rapidly spreading down their torso, squeezing them like a snake. I see mothers with four children and I want to scream at them about birth control, over-population, resources, taxes, and damnation.

I need to get out of this city. It's eating my soul.

Posted 4.30.2004

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