*or anyone else with a tender stomach, or under 21
I try to be proper, and y’know…all “I’m The Southern Wife and Mother and wear clothes from Talbot’s” and such but sometimes, the mind takes over and the mind-mouth filter doesn’t work so well. I have this thing in my head that takes a situation I’m in and twists it into the Absolutely Worst Thing Possible. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts, albeit a Stephen King flavored one. If Terry doesn’t call during the day, I assume that the ammonia chamber on his machine ruptured while he was standing next to it, and his skin dissolved and El Presidente is too much of a chicken-shit to call and tell me. If it’s 6 pm and I haven’t heard from him, then someone at Plant 2 went postal and drove over him with a fork-lift and he’s..well, you get the picture. If someone really *really* pisses me off, which hasn’t actually happened in a while, but if I am deeply and egregiously offended, I’ll picture them…well…kind of…dead, like they’ve been that way for a long time. *sigh* My mother would say that it’s not very lady-like of me. Dad would want to make sure that their deadness was biologically sound, like the festering of their corpses was something ecologically feasible. y’know, if it had bones showing then the blow-flies would be done with and have moved on, that kind of thing. Sorry, I warned you.
I suppose the whole thing is a consequence of reading too many gross novels, listening to too many late-night radio mysteries, watching too much CSI (tho not CSI Miami, the redhead irritates me). I sort of have some anger issues, but having been brought up that anger isn’t ladylike, and being ladylike trumps every other behavior, the manifestation of anger has moved into my head. When I was about 25, and first started really showing life-altering symptoms of mental illness, I tried very hard to control my rage, with dire consequences. As my preacher (part of the team who was helping me get a grip) explained it, the rage was like steam in a teapot. I was the pot, and if I stopped up the usual outlet, the steam would come out somewhere else, and if I kept blocking it, eventually the seams would burst and mayhem would result. So what I needed to do, he explained, was find a logical and reasonable outlet for the rage. Something physical, perhaps.
So there is the physical ,and it takes on a very real appearance that Terry and the boys have learned to recognize and they sort of evaporate for the day. Part of me wishes for a sparring partner that would let me beat the sh…er…stuffing out of, because when it kicks in I become 10 feet tall and bulletproof, but the other part knows it wouldn’t really be fair to the other person. Did I ever tell you about the time I made the mistake of going into public like this, and picked a fight with 4 college-aged men in a parking lot? Terry and Will actually picked me up and stuffed me in the car. In retrospect it was kind of funny because those 4 fellows were all “I can’t hit this woman but she’s like a banty rooster!” Rum and music soothed the savage beast that evening. I can tell when The Hulkstress is emerging, and have medication if I can nip it in the bud, but if it gets past a certain point no amount of valium will sooth the beast, and I end up sequestered for the day, no contact with the outside world. Not quite in chains but I do get alot of wood chopped and holes dug.
I’ve always had a morbid mind. Forensic science is a direction I was seriously considering way before CSI made it hip. There is something fascinating about the progression of degradation an organic creature takes on it’s way toward becoming One With The Earth. It’s an orderly process, and I like order. That’s probably why I think zombies are so dumb…not dumb as in “they’re dumb because they can’t think” but dumb because they are impossible. Zombie movies don’t scare or gross me out, because they aren’t possible like Mothra isn’t possible. The movies that scare me the most are the ones that *are* possible, and delve into the realm of spiritual. You start messing with the spirit…that’s creepy. That’s why the real freaks and scary people are the ones who cause spiritual damage in folks.
So I suppose the Worst Thing Ever isn’t necessarily the thing that causes physical harm, but the one who causes the damage you can’t see, that people hide with smiles and pretension. What really worries me is wondering if I ever did that kind of damage to someone else.