You’ve Grown So Tired Of Your Fellow Man

Perhaps you’ve noticed I’m a bit temperamental. You’re not alone, my pet. During one stretch when I regarded the dating scene – don’t bother, I’m already writing myself a stern reprimand for using the words dating and scene consecutively – as less of an dessert bar and more of barbecue pit, my friend Ivan decided to call me KaliTata, Destroyer of Men, which was so endearing! Not familiar with KaliMa? Off to Wikipedia with you, and we’ll wait.

Tap tap tap. Hey! Nice to see you again! I wore that outfit to a party once, only the skirt was ironically Barbie Pink, and let’s put behind us the scrubbing-spirit-gum-off-my-epidermis incident. Ow! Anyway, the Fabulous Ex-Husband(tm) described mine as “the sprint temper” – as in I went from zero to sixty in “DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?” but that was awhile ago. Even a goddess of destruction likes to think she’s matured since the eighties. Here’s your musical interlude.

Amendment XV
Section 1. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

Section 2. The Congress shall have power to enforce this article by appropriate legislation.

God knows I hate the jazz flute. Yes, time passes and we arrive at yesterday. Stuff this into your socks for safekeeping.

Amendment XVI
The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several states, and without regard to any census or enumeration.

Yesterday, I was trying to move posts I’d written to Running Scared while Poor Impulse Control was dead as a doornail, when Blogger quit publishing. I emailed Siobhan, who does all the heavy lifting here, and blurted out, um, something.

Tata: ^&)@$^*!$^!@^!$%@?
Siobhan: I’ll look.
Tata: ^&)@^%^% thank you.

I had not yet begun to swear. Just after I left work, Siobhan reported back.

Siobhan: I pointed the blah-blah-blah to blah-blah and now I can’t publish anything after October 4th.

This news, when I arrived at home, caused me to hyperventilate. This was no time for rational thinking!

Tata: Puff puff cough puff hack hack wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze!

My first, second and third impulses were exactly the same. I gripped my head. There was screaming. I felt tragic. Only a person who’d just discovered their entire village had been wiped out in an improbable clown car-pile up could know my terrible sorrow. Since Siobhan was working on it, I forced myself to quit screaming and take a nap.

Tata: Zzzzzzwhat about my needszzzzzz…

Siobhan, meanwhile, had a life of her own to lead, which was so inconvenient for Me. This gave me time to think about things. Morgan used to tell me early and often that I was one of those people who felt too much, to which I responded by throwing ashtrays, skillets and knives. Only his excellent reflexes explain his continued good looks, and though he deserved a good beating he was right. That was ten years ago. Yesterday, I paced my living room floor, trying to imagine being able to restrain myself long enough to ask Siobhan questions.

Yeah, I didn’t get far with that.

After seven, I called.

Tata: MMM What do I have to MMMMM do to MMMM get PIC back up and MMMM running tonight?
Siobhan: It’s not? And what the hell is wrong with you?
Tata: Before I say anything else, please know that I appreciate your help with these tasks I cannot do myself, and I am grateful you understand and do these things for me. That’s important.
Siobhan: Yep. Absolutely.
Tata: Good. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY BLOG?

Twenty minutes later, we determined that something might’ve gone wrong at Paulie Gonzalez’ end of this host server moving dealie, and that I would call him. My hair was standing on end. Cartoon steam clouds poured from my ears. My blog was still a wreck and I was still helpless. I called Paulie to throw a weather-changing hissyfit.

Tata: Where are you? What are you doing?
Paulie: I’m at the hospital, picking up my dad.
Tata: What?
Paulie: He’s been here since Wednesday. I’m taking him home. I didn’t tell you?
Tata: No.

Huh. Look, I unexpectedly returned to human form. Small and covered with fur – see? I am not at all coughing up furballs.

Tata: Hack! Hack! Sweetie, call me later, okay?

It’s my work. It’s my identity. It’s just a blog. Thank your favorite deity I’ve fucking matured.

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One response to “You’ve Grown So Tired Of Your Fellow Man

  1. Pingback: Promote the General Welfare And Secure the Blessings Of | Poor Impulse Control

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