MorgaineLaFay
goodirishgirl
- Joined
- Jul 24, 2001
- Posts
- 18,522
I posted this several months ago...It fits my mood this week. I think its hilarious. Save your kind words....I'm fine BTW.
Ain’t Nobody’s Business But My Own
A little funny-off-beat -wit for today...
Have you noticed lately how many people tell you what to do? Whether to smoke; whether to have sex; what to eat, how, and at what time of day; whether to exercise, how, and at what time of day; whether to be angry, hostile, slothful, positive, or negative. And everybody’s a goddamn expert too. As soon as something bad happens to you, for instance, you can be sure that a dozen of your acquaintances will immediately tell you, “it’s better to talk about it.” Why? Why is it always better to talk about it? I happen to know for a fact that sometimes it’s infinitely better not to talk about it.
Idiots.
If I weren’t in such a rage, I’d find this amusing. Have you noticed that there are now two distinct factions on the anger issues? That is, whether it’s healthy to be angry. For years, mental-health professionals and their slavish parrots were saying it was salubrious to be angry and were constantly inveighing against holding it in. God help you if you weren’t perpetually expressing fury at your partner (those people like to refer to you “partner”), your mother, or your boss. Now there’s a whole new school of MHPs and slavish parrots who say it’s unhealthy to be angry, that anger incapacitates you and prevents you from being clear enough to strategize in order to change the situation that made you angry in the first place. As soon as one expresses anger (i.e., gets it out), they ask, “Is this useful?”
And then how about the crowd of entrancing conversationalists -- my favorites--who’ve read those abominable books on death and dying and smugly announce to you that your anger is merely a stage between denial and resignation?
Imbeciles.
I’m warning you, you’d better put a lid on it. In fact, I’m working myself up into such a froth, I feel like crumpling this up and throwing it into the trash can and setting it on fire. (And yes you slavish parrots, this is useful.)
I know what I am going to do to console myself. I’m going to eat more red meat, that’s for sure. Mmmmm. Nice juicy hamburgers. Not broiled ----fried. With cheese. And bacon. And french fries. For dessert, nothing but chocolate mousse will do. With whipped cream. From a can. And I think I’ll drink more. Bourbon and Coke, and I don’t mean diet. Followed by several cups of nice strong coffee. No, make that double espressos. And over dinner, I intend to worry about what other people think of me. And to be as stressed as possible. And if any morons dare tell me I have a problem with authority, I think I’ll just become snide, sarcastic, and negative. Oh, hell, maybe I’ll slap them. Then perhaps I’ll just go out and have some sex. In a relationship that includes absolutely no commitment. In which there is unconditionally no chance of growth. And zero mutual respect. With a sailor. And when I come home at night (late at night, before getting insufficient sleep on a soft mattress, without giving a single thought to brushing, flossing, or skincare), I think I’ll just have a nice, hot, nutritious bowl of crushed Valiums. Then maybe I’ll calm down.
By MC
Ain’t Nobody’s Business But My Own
A little funny-off-beat -wit for today...
Have you noticed lately how many people tell you what to do? Whether to smoke; whether to have sex; what to eat, how, and at what time of day; whether to exercise, how, and at what time of day; whether to be angry, hostile, slothful, positive, or negative. And everybody’s a goddamn expert too. As soon as something bad happens to you, for instance, you can be sure that a dozen of your acquaintances will immediately tell you, “it’s better to talk about it.” Why? Why is it always better to talk about it? I happen to know for a fact that sometimes it’s infinitely better not to talk about it.
Idiots.
If I weren’t in such a rage, I’d find this amusing. Have you noticed that there are now two distinct factions on the anger issues? That is, whether it’s healthy to be angry. For years, mental-health professionals and their slavish parrots were saying it was salubrious to be angry and were constantly inveighing against holding it in. God help you if you weren’t perpetually expressing fury at your partner (those people like to refer to you “partner”), your mother, or your boss. Now there’s a whole new school of MHPs and slavish parrots who say it’s unhealthy to be angry, that anger incapacitates you and prevents you from being clear enough to strategize in order to change the situation that made you angry in the first place. As soon as one expresses anger (i.e., gets it out), they ask, “Is this useful?”
And then how about the crowd of entrancing conversationalists -- my favorites--who’ve read those abominable books on death and dying and smugly announce to you that your anger is merely a stage between denial and resignation?
Imbeciles.
I’m warning you, you’d better put a lid on it. In fact, I’m working myself up into such a froth, I feel like crumpling this up and throwing it into the trash can and setting it on fire. (And yes you slavish parrots, this is useful.)
I know what I am going to do to console myself. I’m going to eat more red meat, that’s for sure. Mmmmm. Nice juicy hamburgers. Not broiled ----fried. With cheese. And bacon. And french fries. For dessert, nothing but chocolate mousse will do. With whipped cream. From a can. And I think I’ll drink more. Bourbon and Coke, and I don’t mean diet. Followed by several cups of nice strong coffee. No, make that double espressos. And over dinner, I intend to worry about what other people think of me. And to be as stressed as possible. And if any morons dare tell me I have a problem with authority, I think I’ll just become snide, sarcastic, and negative. Oh, hell, maybe I’ll slap them. Then perhaps I’ll just go out and have some sex. In a relationship that includes absolutely no commitment. In which there is unconditionally no chance of growth. And zero mutual respect. With a sailor. And when I come home at night (late at night, before getting insufficient sleep on a soft mattress, without giving a single thought to brushing, flossing, or skincare), I think I’ll just have a nice, hot, nutritious bowl of crushed Valiums. Then maybe I’ll calm down.
By MC
