Often, I feel grumpy. Annoyance? Sure. Irritation levels run the gamut between mild and severe. Anger on the other hand, real, fiery red anger, I only experience once in a blue moon. I can go years without getting angry about something. It’s not pleasant for anyone in an approximate ten mile radius when it does happen; so it’s for the best that it takes a lot to get me to that level.
That may be slightly inaccurate. If you are the object of my ire, then the ten mile radius is a good clearance zone. Be sure to follow the “don’t poke an angry bear” policy. I am angry. I am trying to keep it together and not turn into the Incredible Hulk’s meaner, stronger, more rage-y counterpart. To maintain composure I need to be left alone. Or, as I just coined:The Angry Coma. If I tell you, “Don’t talk to me, don’t even look at me,” I suggest you adhere to those instructions. Choose to ignore my warning, and you only have yourself to blame for whatever words loudly come out of my mouth. I promise you the insults will be creative, both in content and curse-word usage. It’s not just road-rage that makes me come up with new ways to say old curses (like my personal favorite “mother of fuckers”), I can come up with some epically terrible things to tell you about yourself when in a fit of anger. If I do start screaming creative profanities at you, describing in great detail why I think you are the worst person ever, I will feel no remorse. You were warned.
Unfortunately, if you are a completely innocent close friend and find me in this state, I would suggest you also maintain that ten mile safety distance. Strangers, acquaintances, heck, even friends, are completely safe. These people may notice that I am not as jovial as usual, but overall I make an effort to behave relatively normally.
See, the reason I have dubbed it The Angry Coma (TAC)* is because when I get angry, I go silent. I imagine if you were the close friend witness to my recent TAC attack, the silence is scary. I do not want to say one word. I don’t want to talk it out. If I’ve gotten that mad, there’s a good chance there is no solution to whatever the problem is, so talking about it right then only feeds the beast. If there were something to be done, that’s what I’d be doing. Asking me questions, especially any that express concern for my emotional state, will guarantee you a look of doom. Admittedly, there is a small part of me that is considering putting your name on the shit list just for asking. It doesn’t happen, because, really…that’s ridiculous…but…well…it gets considered. Seriously, if you ever find yourself in this situation, I get that you want to help. I even appreciate that you care enough to try.
The best option is to step away slowly, or maybe lock me in a messy house somewhere. TAC can also lead to vigorous cleaning. I learned this from my grandmother. Any time she was super pissed she would clean the house while having pretend arguments with the person she was angry with. Now that I think about it, she is probably where I get my TAC condition from. Sure, I remember the floor scrubbing/yelling-at-no-one, but I also have a clear memory of someone not heeding the safety radius, and poking the bear. Suddenly my sweet, beautiful grandmother hurled a HUGE can of Yuban clear across a room with incredible force. Luckily (?) her aim was slightly off, so the projectile smashed into the wall behind and to the left of the object of her anger; who then sent me to the neighbor’s house. Which always seemed silly to me. I never felt in any danger (I knew to shut up and let her be). More than anything I was impressed with the velocity and distance she managed to get out of the coffee. Is it weird that this story makes me feel somehow closer to my grandmother? A touching tale about how we both share a high level of volatility when angered. We share curly hair, and hopefully an incredibly strong yet slightly inaccurate throwing arm.
TAC typically only lasts around 24 hours. So, if you do see it happen and you feel compelled to be concerned, just text me a day later. I knew it was a shortish shelf-life, but it wasn’t until this time around that I actually paid attention to the amount of time TAC lasted. I’m not saying that the people that made me angry are in the clear, as I explained to Dreamer (who was the unlucky close friend subjected to several looks of doom) in a brief moment of conversation yesterday; those people are basically dead to me. Very soon I will never, ever have to lay eyes on them again. This TAC will become a distant memory. At least Dreamer learned first hand a) to never make me angry and b) what to do in the event that I am angry.
There may even come a day when Dreamer will test out a joke about TAC. I should probably practice the doom face, just to mess with him if he does. On the other hand, it’s one of those things I don’t even realize I’m doing at the time, and I don’t think I can fake. Like whatever it is that I do when I realize people are about to hug me that makes them think I am completely uncomfortable with hugging. I’m only uncomfortable with hugging some of the time. People find my supposed discomfort level amusing all of the time. But that’s another post, for another day.
*OMG, it’s amazing when things work out. It’s a long story, but for a while there I had an uncle who nicknamed me TAC, or Baby TAC. I like this new level I’ve just accidentally brought it to.