In order to get properly acquainted to Mr BooHoo, I would suggest that you start from the beginning, in case you haven't been through the previous seven, plus a paragraph, chapters. Never you mind, none of them is too big. Don't be a lazy donkey, if you don't begin at the start you will not get the whole picture. Just scroll down and find chapter one. If, on the other hand, you are a familiar visitor, well then, cheers. Sorry for the spelling mistakes.
Chapter *(8): anger
Mr BooHoo was feeling angry. He filled his bathtub with hot water, added a handful of colourful plastic ducks and a clockwork turtle, of whom his friend was to get particularly fond of, and got inside. His bathtub was neither antique nor beautiful. In fact it did not even have a bathtub plug and he had to use the lid of a glass jar instead. still, as long as the lid fitted and stayed put it was no skin off his nose. The ducks kept flowing up-side-down with their heads in the water. No matter what he tried they seemed due to stay like this. He did not mind this either. He left some gas and watched it go up in bubbles. The smell reminded him faintly of cooked beetroot, not to mention cabbage or cauliflower. He occasionally took small sips from a rather small glass filled with a rather translucent liquid. He looked at an old envelope he had used as scrap paper and noticed that there were some funny stuff printed in a small square at the bottom right side of it, titled "return (in his language)/retour". Under this there were options with smaller boxes on their right side so as to tick in case you would like it unopened to the post office. One of these words, in his native language, meant "unacceptable", although the sense in which it was used there might be "unaccepted". It sounded rude and evasive and it almost amused him.
After he was half the way through his drink he felt the anger subsiding and numbness spreading from the back of his head to the rest of his body. His mind became misty- as the opposite of clear- that was a good thing because at that point, clarity of thought combined with the negative feelings invoked by dusk and tiresomeness would probably make him angrier and stressed. He thought shortly on another option from the small square; it said that the letter was undelivered because the person to whom it was addressed to had "left without leaving a forward address". Most likely, he would not become this person for multiple reasons, cowardice among them.
His mind returned to the feeling of anger. To the biggest part, it was other people's attitude that made him angry. Trusting people with jobs that never got done in time, having to ask people for favours, people that would only do him favours so as to ask for something in return, being in the need of people, loosing control over things and in the end he was the only one who got hurt. Perhaps he paid too much attention to what people thought of him. The worst part was to have to ask twice. Also, people who were loud and cocky made him vexed and people who thought they were brilliant just because they had once succeeded in academia but were bloody morons in real life situations, big people who took his turn in lines and the list could go on and on and on. (Bosses that refused to pay their employes, arrogant school-teachers, violent boyfriends and girlfriends, manipulators, spoiled single children, political figures, narrow-minded people, new-hippies, new age religious freaks, in one word idiots. Bad guys).
Once, trying to asses his psychological drama, he read about a behavioral disorder that pretty much matched his then current condition. A specialist was giving some oversimplified examples of people who, on certain occasions, sunk into self-pity, where-as anger would have been a more appropriate and "normal" feeling. He remember thinking that it was a pile of literary dung he had come across, because self-pity can be a more dignified state of mind than anger. Definitely safer for the rest of the world. The feelings of self-pity and self-loathing can be irksome but in an explosion of anger there are bound to be innocent victims of violence. In addition, he could not figure out how he could ever look at himself in the mirror if he knew he had hurt somebody so much, physically or mentally. Not that he was a saint, he had sent plenty of people to s"d off, but this was as far as it went and it still bothered him from time to time. He was further annoyed when he thought of all the times he must have insulted or hurt people that had not brought it upon themselves and had forgotten all about it. At that period Mr BooHoo was sinking into crisis of self pity, during which he disliked himself so much that he almost turned to religion. He still carried fragments of this and always expected a new outburst.
As it has been mentioned, though, lately, he was getting angry. Of course, he would restrain from expressing himself verbally, but he spent so much time in his time re-fighting lost battles and telling people off. So much that he started finding it silly and mocking himself for transforming into a vengeful super hero, with abilities similar to Hulk's, in his imagination, while remaining a (not always so) silent mouse in real life.
Squick.
The small people shall rise (again).
After three miniature glasses of transparent liquid he was not angry at all. Slightly numb, perhaps, and ready to go hide under his new handmade quilt. He had made it almost 950 fabrics short to be enchanted and thus did not expect anything he would dream under it to come true. This was a soothing thought, especially since not all his dreams were soothing.
Chapter *(8): anger
Mr BooHoo was feeling angry. He filled his bathtub with hot water, added a handful of colourful plastic ducks and a clockwork turtle, of whom his friend was to get particularly fond of, and got inside. His bathtub was neither antique nor beautiful. In fact it did not even have a bathtub plug and he had to use the lid of a glass jar instead. still, as long as the lid fitted and stayed put it was no skin off his nose. The ducks kept flowing up-side-down with their heads in the water. No matter what he tried they seemed due to stay like this. He did not mind this either. He left some gas and watched it go up in bubbles. The smell reminded him faintly of cooked beetroot, not to mention cabbage or cauliflower. He occasionally took small sips from a rather small glass filled with a rather translucent liquid. He looked at an old envelope he had used as scrap paper and noticed that there were some funny stuff printed in a small square at the bottom right side of it, titled "return (in his language)/retour". Under this there were options with smaller boxes on their right side so as to tick in case you would like it unopened to the post office. One of these words, in his native language, meant "unacceptable", although the sense in which it was used there might be "unaccepted". It sounded rude and evasive and it almost amused him.
After he was half the way through his drink he felt the anger subsiding and numbness spreading from the back of his head to the rest of his body. His mind became misty- as the opposite of clear- that was a good thing because at that point, clarity of thought combined with the negative feelings invoked by dusk and tiresomeness would probably make him angrier and stressed. He thought shortly on another option from the small square; it said that the letter was undelivered because the person to whom it was addressed to had "left without leaving a forward address". Most likely, he would not become this person for multiple reasons, cowardice among them.
His mind returned to the feeling of anger. To the biggest part, it was other people's attitude that made him angry. Trusting people with jobs that never got done in time, having to ask people for favours, people that would only do him favours so as to ask for something in return, being in the need of people, loosing control over things and in the end he was the only one who got hurt. Perhaps he paid too much attention to what people thought of him. The worst part was to have to ask twice. Also, people who were loud and cocky made him vexed and people who thought they were brilliant just because they had once succeeded in academia but were bloody morons in real life situations, big people who took his turn in lines and the list could go on and on and on. (Bosses that refused to pay their employes, arrogant school-teachers, violent boyfriends and girlfriends, manipulators, spoiled single children, political figures, narrow-minded people, new-hippies, new age religious freaks, in one word idiots. Bad guys).
Once, trying to asses his psychological drama, he read about a behavioral disorder that pretty much matched his then current condition. A specialist was giving some oversimplified examples of people who, on certain occasions, sunk into self-pity, where-as anger would have been a more appropriate and "normal" feeling. He remember thinking that it was a pile of literary dung he had come across, because self-pity can be a more dignified state of mind than anger. Definitely safer for the rest of the world. The feelings of self-pity and self-loathing can be irksome but in an explosion of anger there are bound to be innocent victims of violence. In addition, he could not figure out how he could ever look at himself in the mirror if he knew he had hurt somebody so much, physically or mentally. Not that he was a saint, he had sent plenty of people to s"d off, but this was as far as it went and it still bothered him from time to time. He was further annoyed when he thought of all the times he must have insulted or hurt people that had not brought it upon themselves and had forgotten all about it. At that period Mr BooHoo was sinking into crisis of self pity, during which he disliked himself so much that he almost turned to religion. He still carried fragments of this and always expected a new outburst.
As it has been mentioned, though, lately, he was getting angry. Of course, he would restrain from expressing himself verbally, but he spent so much time in his time re-fighting lost battles and telling people off. So much that he started finding it silly and mocking himself for transforming into a vengeful super hero, with abilities similar to Hulk's, in his imagination, while remaining a (not always so) silent mouse in real life.
Squick.
The small people shall rise (again).
After three miniature glasses of transparent liquid he was not angry at all. Slightly numb, perhaps, and ready to go hide under his new handmade quilt. He had made it almost 950 fabrics short to be enchanted and thus did not expect anything he would dream under it to come true. This was a soothing thought, especially since not all his dreams were soothing.
No comments:
Post a Comment