Altar Bread

That restless feeling that manifests somewhere in the tips of your fingers and festers there in your elbows for a spell before trickling to the back of your throat – twisting your tongue into knots and leaving the inside of your mouth dry and crusty like an old washcloth left out on the sidewalk in the middle of a California desert in August? Yeah. I have that. Have had it, I think, for… three days now? Only at work, though. I just… its slow here. Not a whole lot to do. Or maybe it’s just that the stuff there is to do is so mindless I find my thoughts drifting in the middle of doing them toward things I’d really rather not give voice to in public. But that’s the problem. The shit wants a voice. Or my stance on the shit, rather. Wants to be heard now, for some reason, more than it’s ever wanted to before. Can’t get away from it, either. Everyone’s talking about it. It’s all over the news. In the paper. The office. Here on fucking OD. I just want to… partake. And argue. And get good and ugly and vitriolic with it and with you because, fuck you, you’re beneath me with your biased, outdated soliloquies and blind faith. Want to hang a banner that screams I’m better than you. In massive, bold, black, all caps. Against a blinding neon background.
It’s fitting that the only time I’ve ever succeeded in holding myself in high regard is when I’m comparing my position regarding social issues to those of the assholes around me.
Fucking self-righteous pricks.
I think it’s the only scenario in which I’ve ever wanted to hurt a complete stranger. Time and again. Whenever it comes up or I stumble upon some Bob or Mary spewing forth a metric fuckton of hatred wrapped in delicate gold leaf. Want to verbally cripple. Rescind. Maim. Do unto Mary what Mary has had no problem doing unto others. Clockwork Orange type stuff. Want her to hurt every time some new prick starts parroting this insanity.
Find myself writing out responses in my head, formulating imaginary Mary’s most-likely counter-argument and then tearing her in half with a rebuttal. For three days now. In the midst of reviewing plans for a barracks in Fort Bragg or flipping through May invoices and check stubs. Standard Monday through Friday, eight to five I-hate-my-job rhetoric, perhaps.
And if I’m not fighting off the urge to voice this shit out loud or via the interwebs, I’m fucking singing this Shirley Temple tune I can’t shake. You know… “animal crackers in my soup, monkeys and rabbits loop the loop. Gosh oh gee but I have fun… swallowing animals, one by one…”.
Don’t even know if those are the right words, but they’re the words I learned when I was little so… they’re what I’m left with.

Such a happy tune. Such angry, satisfying, vacant thoughts.

Animal crackers in my soup,

For three days.

monkeys and rabbits

Over.

loop the loop.

And over.

Gosh oh gee but I have fun…

And
 
Swallowing

fucking

animals

over.
 
Finally got a script for vicodin today. After a week and a half. Hung up the phone and almost cried.

one by one.
 
sane. Or I am insane. This is in