I’m Just Sayin: I’m Not An Angry Person I Just Have A Lot Of Anger In Me

In case you were not aware of it since my humble self has been so modestly discreet about it (see columns dated June 11 & June 18) but I recently celebrated another birthday. What that means is that for one day I was the center of the universe – well, at least virtually, on planet Facebook.

For nearly 24 hours, I morphed into a super mega Rock Star enjoying an overwhelming outpour of birthday wishes publicly posted on my wall, which needless to say, on any other day would habitually remain quite naked, as in rather unvisited.

Of course, like most nouveau celebrity not jaded by fame yet and still sans the customary (unnecessary) ass-kissing entourage of entertainment professionals also known as “the team”, I actually took the time to read every single one of my massive fan mails – and by massive I mean my impressive 190-something accounted Facebook friends. To tell you the truth, the reason I read them all was not for lack of having an official operational fan club. I was more curious to see which one of my friends would be the most creative in formulating a Hallmark-like message.

By far the post that got 200% of my attention was the one my friend Sunshine typed which read: “Hope you’re up to no good and causing chaos.”
That to me said one thing: TOUCHE! Finally, somebody has been paying attention! I’ve been uncovered, completely busted!

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I like to cause trouble. I am “trouble” – and very much troubled. You’re probably thinking that once again I am blowing things out of proportion for the hype effect. But seriously, if could take a trip inside my head, you would see what I’m talking about. The threat level is always at its highest as in terminally on Code Orange alert. It’s very much a hodgepodge of Katrina, El Nino and the Northridge Earthquake all stubbornly competing against each other to make my HEAD-line news.

Still don’t believe me? Allow me then to illustrate the demented level of my tempestuous self. And I suggest that you keep your seat belt fastened during this flight, as you’re about to travel through turbulence.

A few days ago, I was in my car, running errands with my little puppy Georgie, when I decided to make a stop at a 7/11 to replenish my nicotine ammunition. As I entered the parking lot of the store, a car was conveniently pulling out of a prime spot – and by prime I mean literally two steps away from the front door. What can I say? It’s LA; nobody walks in LA!

Anyway, as I patiently waited for the gentleman to complete his backing up maneuver, while ingeniously already claiming his coveted spot by properly engaging my signals, some absolutely deranged maniac emerging out of nowhere, precipitously cut me off and in a disturbing out of control typhoon-like manner rushed to park her car. Not only did that inconsiderate bitch deliberately steal my spot but she also very viciously feigned to acknowledge my divine presence.
At that exact moment one word instantly came to mind: R.U.D.E!

Of course any sane, mentally balanced, healthy human being would have probably let it go considering the fact that there were plenty of other vacant spots to claim on that 7/11 lot but evidently NOT ME!
My brain had blown more than one fuse and there was no rewiring. She was certainly going to hear it! Or as I usually like to say to my friend McKenzie when reporting about my daily ruckus – meaning my habitual altercations with random individuals in random public places – I was going to “put her back in her place” … for sure!

I immediately grabbed the next closest parking spot available, turned off the engine, pulled up the emergency brake with such brutal force it nearly dislocated from its box. I can still vividly remember the fear in my poor Georgie’s eyes as I almost slammed the door of the car on his terrorized face.

I stormed in to the 7/11 fuming with anger and promptly made my way toward road rage psycho. All I have to say is, thank god I am a regular customer and that the 7/11 employees know otherwise it would have looked like I was about to commit an armed robbery or pull a Columbine or something – you know, go postal!
But again, nah … not me! That’s not my style. I was way more inconspicuous and classier than that, and instead opted to verbally assault her.

“Are you fucking out of your mind?” I belched out as loudly as my lungs would permit, “You fucking drive like a fucking maniac.”
Remaining inhumanly, and yes disturbingly, composed and calm she nonchalantly replied “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Having the absolute certitude that this was the answer of a calculating mind at work, and that she was taking me for a fool, I upgraded the intensity of my furor to its highest possible level: I became explosively enraged. At that very precise moment, I suddenly sensed all the un-fabulous symptoms of my self-inflicted outburst multiply ten folds: rapid heart rate, tense muscles, shallow breathing, trembling of the legs, and blood vessels ferociously pushing against my artery walls.

That was it! The war was officially declared. With all the venom I could collect in my voice, I went on a verbal warfare rampage.
“You’re a fucking idiot! Don’t play dumb with me. You know perfectly well what you did.” And then to overly dramatize things a bit, I proceeded to make up and presume shit: “You almost crashed into my car!” I yelled. “You cut me off when you knew damned well I was waiting for that spot. You’re fucking stupid, disrespectful asshole,” I elegantly proceeded to say.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated totally unfazed while dismissively resuming her 7/11 shopping. Suffice to say that her mind-blowing indifference made me super boiling mad. Bitch was not going to shut me up that easily! Not only was I determined to have the last word, but I was also on a mission now to have my own justice rendered. That was when, obviously, I completely lost my mind and subsequently lost whatever rational reason was left in me.

“You’re a fucking inconsiderate maniac behind the wheel. You should have your driver’s license revoked. And how dare you drive a nice car (she was the proud owner of a Mercedes) when you fucking drive like a white-trash ghetto moron.”

NB: I have not yet been diagnosed with tourette syndrome, I just like to use the F word a lot to accentuate the point I am trying to get across.

For the oomph time, sticking to her nerve-wrecking robotic answer she replied:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
OH NO SHE DI’INT! I wanted to say out loud to show her I could be ghetto too. But needing some kind of closure for my own personal peace of mind and sanity, all I could delivered as my grand finale was: “You know what? You don’t even have to play dumb! You are dumb.”

So those were my brilliant and uber mature last words. Dumb and dumber (that would me) eventually went their separate ways to resume their separate lives separately. And of course I told Georgie all about it as we drove home. Poor thing must have thought “What the fuck? What did I do to deserve her?”

I’m sorry but I urgently needed to vent. Surely I was not going to call McKenzie and give her another opportunity to launch her “you need to call Bob (her therapist extraordinaire)” guerrilla PR campaign on my ass. Believe me, I’ve sat on enough psychoanalytic couches to know that this is absolutely not about me; it’s about them! That’s right it, my turmoil is my mother’s entire making. Well not just her but my ex-girlfriend too to whom I owe my magnified agonizing fear of abandonment.
To bottom line it, I have been alone for so long, I’ve not only made a career out of it, but it also has made me, quite flagrantly, socially handicapped – as in, royally incapable to be around others.

I’m not gonna lie! I don’t get along with a lot of people. But being alone doesn’t mean I am lonely. Sure I got friends … in high places: Dr. Meredith Grey, Dr. Izzie Stevens, Dr. Cristina Yang, Dr. George O’Malley and Dr. Derek Shepherd. And get this! I even recently added a few more: Diego Maradona, Franck Ribery, Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi.
That’s right! I hang out with Doctors and professional soccer players. Hey, social status is important to me; after all, you are who you hang out with.

At least with my small screen friends, I never ever lose my temper. See? I don’t need anger management classes. I just need people to leave me alone, stop causing me grievance regardless if said grief is real or the product of my irrational perception, and just make an effort to meet my expectations.

I’m not an angry person! I just have a lot of anger in me and that makes me very angry!