I seemed to have missed a memo somewhere.It's the one where you work to secure the future and stability of a number of people that aren't you, and in the process you make the mistake of committing competence.
Obviously, this proves my ultimate and innate evil.
I must be stopped.
Since I obviously cannot be stopped by normal means, the only fair action is to create laws that don't exist and convince people I am violating them. In actuality I would be violating them, if they did indeed exist.
It's necessary.
On being confronted publicly with such perfidy, having the poor grace to point out that these laws do not exist, or no one would actually be able to complete the work that matched my job description the truth did indeed out! I should not be doing my job! It's all clear now.
Of course the simple act of the gentleman in question cashing his checks for the next five years will be due to my doing the job he has deemed I should not do. The job that may go away while I was securing his, because I was securing his. Let us not let logic get in the way of desire.
He desires my acts to be illegal. If he says it strongly enough, surely it will be.
The anger of course is because I know things. How dare I, I'm wearing the wrong color and not allowed to know things. He ought to know since he wears the same color. You can see how that makes him right.
The color we wear is green. The color of my rage is striped.
I will need to settle back down into gray.
Soon.
Apparently there is nothing more threatening in the world than Me. Knowing things.
Good.
I have no intention of dumbing down.
5 comments:
Why is the rage striped and not plaid? Would that mean that it's too complex? Or just Scottish?
Stand your ground, man. You just have to. You are what you are and there's no real reason to deny it. Never ever deny it.
I believe it's striped because of the layers. If I were in a celtic rage I would probably opt for wode blue instead of an actual tartan.
Because the warriors who used wode were batshait crazy.
I'm beginning to work my way out of "wounded-angry-lion" rage and into cold "if-you-even-think-of-doing-that-again-you'll-meet-my-lawyer-and-I-will-own-your-ass" rage.
If he thinks I'm a problem just knowing where our budget comes from, he'll have a major difficulty with my knowing the real usage and application of slander laws.
My rage is pink.
Pink like a slapped cheek.
I will not rage for you, but I will absorb some of it f, no matter the color. Sin-eater style we send our rage out into the ether and come back almost human and better for the sharing. I hope he knows who he is messing with, he will ---- his little bunched up panties.
I cannot call it rage. Rage implies an out-of-controlness I seem incapable of.
But this thing... this hurt anger...
It shifts. It simmers a cool silvery blue. It undulates between purple and indigo. It slithers along the floor an insidious sickly yellow with streaks of pale pink, erupting with fiery orange and red sparks. And then it coils back on itself, surprised to find itself standing in the middle of the floor, alone, and with people looking uncomfortably at their shoes.
You see, funnily enough, I too was accused yesterday. Not for the first time. And still wrongly.
Accused with what they usually accuse women of when they want to control them. Paint me with t\The Scarlet Letter; I shall embroider it with golden thread and pearls and adorn your false accusations so heavily with truth that eventually, surely, they must crumble.
Hmmmmm. Alternatively...
Batshait crazy sounds pretty good. Pass the blue wode, will you?
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