And I'll be damned if I can find a reason. Maybe it's looking at my two new 30 rd polymer mags that arrived today. And wanting to load them. And snap one into my AK. And just kill, and kill, and kill...
Settle, Bane. Settle.
If I didn't have this outlet, I don't actually know what I'd do. My chest is tight, and my trigger fingers itch. I think I'll whistle Johnny upstairs, and soak him up for a minute.
Damn, that didn't work. You know what the main difference between me and you is? I express what is in my dark heart because I have neither fear, nor shame. You cuddle yours close, like a red-eyed kitten, and keep it inside for 'special occasions'.
You're on a tour, fuckers. You get on a boat in the Tunnel of Hate when you come here, and twist and turn through the darkness that is my mind, not caring that I just wish it was the 'Small World' ride at Disneyland.
I have contemplated, contemplate, letting you in. Below the surface. Telling tales, taking you into lagoons filled with stagnant blood, and echoing with screams, but golly, you have already whined at me for what I have put out here already.
The wife, The Saint, knows when to shut me up. She puts up a hand, and says something she learned from my oldest daughter, to clear her mind of whatever pollution I was putting out: "Dead kitties, dead kitties, dead kitties!"
Funny, how thinking about the wife has centered me. She is out with Nat right now, doing Girl's Club things. Last Friday, she took Johnny to a sleepover with the boys from his group. He played video games, watched videos, ran around like a mad thing (the wife called me at one point, and just held the phone up. It sounded like a Circle of Hell, to me...) and ate pizza.
She cried when she told me later that he thanked her for 'letting him be a boy'.
Okay, I did, too.
My Little Man. My Little Lady. The wife. I am centered again.
Hope I didn't fuck up your head too bad on a Friday night.