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Posts Tagged ‘feed the beast’

Sometimes you hit the too-much point.  You know what I’m talking about.  It’s just…all too much.  You feel wild.  You feel crazy.  You feel out of control, out of body, and like you just want someone to put you in a room full of glass and hand you a baseball bat.  You’re pissed at the world and its incompetence/lack of compassion/stupidity/unfairness/insert shitty attribute here.  You are awesome, goddammit–you kick ass.  Why doesn’t everyone agree on that?  Why is everything going to hell?

So I hit that point today, and when I saw that a loaf of bread had gone moldy, I went over the edge, delightfully careening out of my gourd as a steady David Bowie soundtrack played in the background.  I slammed the loaf to the ground and stomped it into disc form while screaming and crying and uttering a string of obscenities that would surprise a grand total of nobody who knows me.  I howled about wanting to burn everything to the ground.  Yes.  Yes, this was good.  I needed more. And The Boy could tell.

He took a glance around.  There was a moldy orange in our fruit bowl.  He gingerly placed it in the center of my new Breaking Shit pile.  Then he got the fuck out the way.

Freshly-squeezed O.J., anybody?

But the pièce de résistance was a gingerbread village (yes, gingerbread, as in Christmas) that was laying in a pile of things to be “handled.”  Well, fuck, I could handle that village right here and now.  Godzilla-esque fantasies flashed through my head.  I slammed the thing to the floor and went on a killing rampage, complete with imaginary screaming villagers, as The Boy watched on with what I believe was genuine childlike delight.

My little misfits, I beat the shit out of that gingerbread village.

There is a beast that lives in each of us.  Suppressing it is what gets us into trouble, and into straightjackets.  Feed the beast regularly.  Let your crazy out.  Fly your freak flag.  Start a “Breaking Shit” pile at your homestead.  And if you want, show me your Breaking Shit pile.  Bonus points if you’re in the shot actually breaking shit.  And I’ll post it on this here site.

After the carnage had passed, and The Boy and I were standing there in quiet contemplation of my streak of destruction, he sighed deeply, saying:

“Your main problem is that you’re a goddess, and you’re among men and women, and you’re trying to be one of them.  You know, that’s what Jesus tried, and I’m not sure if you know, but it didn’t really work out for him…have you read the Bible?”

I love The Boy.

Until next time, my sweet, sweet misfits: break shit.  And love yourself.

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