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14 Years of Low-self Esteem and Repressed Aggression before/after I am Joe's sense of indignant rage. The thing about me, is I am mellow. It takes a lot to provoke a response from me. It takes even more for me to lose my temper. A lot. Except if you're my brother. If you're my brother, be content in the knowledge that you can push my buttons and piss me off, but also know that once you do, there is no going back, and you will have to deal with the reprecussions. I so want to kick my brothers ass. The thought crossed my mind to go over to his house, in nice staid Wash Park, kick open the door, pull him out of bed and give him the most viscious smack down of both of our lives. Pull him to the floor and smack!smack!smack! with the right hand to the eye until I see blood. Throttle him while smacking his head on the floor. Last night, I gave him about three hits of quality LSD as a gift, for no reason other than niceness, to take with him and his girlfriend on their week long trip. They take LSD a half at a time. So this is more than enough. While I'm waiting for him for 45 minutes, I pinch a less than a bowl of marijuana from his stash, after calling his cell, and leaving a message telling him exactly what I was doing. (He could've called and said, "No.") I leave and go about my business. Seems fair, doesn't it? A bowl (about a dollar's worth) in exchange for three hits of LSD, after his "friends" had left him high and dry. Not a big deal. So at home, I get a call, and he's pricking me out, trying to manipulate me into giving him more. "Did you get enough?" "Sure, I guess, what do you mean?" "You crippled my stash. " You uptight, bitchy, manipulative FUCK. I tried to explain that giving him more LSD is counter productive, due to the fact that when you trip multiple times in a week, the effect is lessend. He feels he has the moral high-ground and keeps pressing it ("You come into my house, and take my weed...") , quickly shouting at me. I hate it when ANYONE shouts at me. Give me the respect I give you, or I WILL stick my foot in your ass so far it will say 'Doc Marten' on your tonsils. But its my brother. I let him slide a lot. A whole lot. For filial reasons. Keep in mind for the first fourteen years of my life he humilitaed, degraded, tortured, and physically beat me up every day. I stopped telling my folks, because it made no difference. He'd lie about it. They wouldn't know what to do. So day after day, it added up. The outright torture. The insults. The beatings in front of his friends so he could show off. Ugh. I'm getting angry just thinking about it. Now, as my mean streak grew, and I learned to fight, and have since worked dilligently to build my strength, co-ordination, and prowess, he no longer tries anything physical with me. Good reasons not to include me kicking his ass at least three times soundly, and verbally stating, "You can't do that to me anymore." Of course he whined to mom, and got me in trouble. She gave me the soundest berating and threats of disinheitance if I continued. So I bit my lip and acceded, only stating that if he tried to hurt me again, I would defend myself, 'cause I view that right as inviable. The look in my Dad's eye said something. It made me think of being at my friends, and watching his kids play, and the older one brutalizing the younger repeatedly. Someone said, "I hope he remembers this when he's older, 'cause payback is a bitch." It seemed to resonate with my father's look. I'm not totally misunderstood. So I hang up on my brother. Phone rings again immediatly. He launches into the screaming, and I quickly hang up. The phone rings immediately again. I was tempted to pick it up and say "Psy-chooo!" and hang up, but I didn't. I could picture him raging and screaming like a kid who always got his way. This morning there was a poisonous message from his fiance' on my phone. Didn't listen to it. Someone else told me, and I had them delete it. Girls: I would give you this bit of advice, and I would hope you listen. Let guys fight and do the talking. Don't start running your mouth, as if you were the one who would be fighting. Its so transparent, unbecoming, and in my mind, contrary to what feminisim is. Fighting is stupid, brutish, and uncouth. No one needs to do it. But when you start writing checks your boyfriend's ass can't cash, you will inevitably see him get beaten to a pulp by crazy fuckers like me. You don't want to see the dead look in my eyes as I take his blood and fling it at you. I don't care how tough or big and bad you think he is, there is ALWAYS someone, or a group of people who will have his number. ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS. What's the point in getting more angry? I stayed in last night, thinking he might come over and try something. The wise move, of course would've been to leave and go and do. And, of course, he didn't show. Pussy. I was hoping he would. I have fourteen years of low self esteem and repressed aggression to let out. I'm so fucking angry. Fuck. This is my existance.
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