Tag Archives: anger

Young Scars (1985)

TBT… The Angry Young me

 

Just a young man

So seasoned at lying

At 17 years old

I

Rob

You

Blind

You believe me when I blame someone else

I piss on your favorite things

I torch whatever I can

Burn it all down

I must be really mad

Why?

You exposed me to sex

When

Was 

Much

Too

Young.

Sacred sex.

You showed me criminality

You stripped my sensitivity away

It was your matter-of-fact fuck it all attitude

that fueled my rage

I rebel.

You purged and cleansed the household of me

Then I’m gone in a drug-induced haze

 

I got high with you and your wives

Listened to your stories

Believed your lies

Then you put me away when I robbed you.

You threw me out.

You wondered why

You introduced me to all.

Sex, drugs, and Sinatra

You lived the life of all that was evil shallow and toxic.

Why do I hate?

Why am I still so fucking full of rage?

I can’t let it go

I don’t want to judge

I can’t stop

So

I

Just

Live with it…

IMG_8098.jpg

 

 

 

 

Disgruntled Client.

OCT 3, 2017

WOW! Where do I start?

I’ve been to about 26 rehabs, no need to list them here, but feel free to ask my mother. There’s a thread of etiquette and a sense of decorum that comes in the world of rehabs, sober livings, and sobriety in general.

It might serve you to make a poster or placards for all to see, maybe hang it in the common areas. That being said (with the exception of the piss soaked, shit stained bed bug ridden county dumps that I’ve experienced) this is quite possibly the worst rehab I’ve ever been in. Hands down! Kip Garman, my case worker, therapist, whatever it is he claims to be (I have yet to see any credentials.) He just sits and blows vape clouds and looks out the window while I’m telling him my most intimate of secrets! Then makes no comment whatsoever, except, “good work I’ll see you next Monday.” HUH? What the actual fuck!!! He has the emotional depth of a bird bath! Also that scam artist in accounting, Candy, she double bills my insurance!

Well, I mean my mother’s insurance, but still! Now to the residents. Just selfish fucking little assholes! They never clean they’re up after themselves, AND staff just sits there looking on and don’t say anything. WHAT THE FUCK! It’s like the staff is intimidated, or scared they might get fired if they say something to these little shits! Stop coddling these little fuck sticks. Tough love works! Make them scrub toilets! Clean up dog shit at a local dog park! Why do I have to clean up or move things around because these brain dead millennials wreck havoc throughout the place!

There is a dishwasher, fuckers! Load it, fill it with cascade, turn it on, and goodnight! Then, in the morning, empty the fucking thing! Nobody loads or unloads it except me! They all live out of the dishwasher and then load dirty dishes in with clean dishes so there’s never a complete cycle of anything being clean or dirty, fucking so sick of it! These people have zero living skills! The same goes for the washer and dryer, these little assholes just live out of the dryer like it is their drawers or closet. And then I have to pull that shit out and put it in their room because otherwise I get yelled at for putting it in the common areas!

They keep the volume on the TV at like the highest possible level! I have to listen to the Friends theme song at maximum volumes. And there’s a DVD collection of every season of “Friends” in the common area? AND Who even watches that shit? I’ll answer! They do! Because they’re on suboxone or Librium or Seroquel! They sit there drooling and droopy-eyed, most of these assholes never even had a real habit or have had to truly hustle to keep from getting dope sick!!

Also regarding the tv. My bedroom wall is right on the other side! IT’S SO LOUD! The common areas are a disaster too! Half-eaten bags of Doritos and cookies and burritos on the coffee table. Gummy bear fruit bullshit stuck to the sofa, a motherfucking half glass of almond milk sat there for so long it turned back into an almond! It is disgusting and I am about to call the board of health. The techs sit around and try to pass all the shit off to the next tech and they just walk by something that has been there for DAYS! Why oh why the fuck don’t they say anything!?!?!? The smoking area is a health and safety disaster too!!!

These halfwits leave lit cigarettes on the edge of the wooden benches or fill up the but cans with so many cigarettes it finally just burst into flames. Nobody says or does anything it’s just one big fucking free-for-all. They vape frantically like they’re going to the electric chair. ALSO, I overhear people talking about cheating on their fucking Piss test, sneaking out at night and drinking. One guy (some wanna be wigger ex-con who’s never done a day in jail) said he had his girlfriend smuggle drugs in that she had “stuffed in her pussy.” I was like, “hey dip shit this ain’t pelican bay! I mean this place is 20 grand a month! the fuck am I paying for? I could be spending that in a crack house. Anyway, I want to just talk about the most glaring cases.

#1 Phillip Eckstein (trust fund self-entitled little fuck bird who lives in his OWN room)! He’s constantly leaving soiled peanut butter spoons knives forks (apparently whatever he can use to scoop it out) then open jars of everything and crumbs on every surface of the god damn kitchen! He walks around saying nigger this and nigger that like he’s from the ghetto. A white dude! This motherfucker is a refrigerator white trust fund dude from Holmby Hills for Christ sake! He never flushes the toilet when he defecates and makes remarks like, “My parents are paying top dollar for me to be here, I think the staff could at least clean up after me.” You believe this little douchetard! I finally let him have it when he used a washcloth to wipe his ass and then he just throws it behind the toilet like nobody knows! I swear to God I’m gonna beat this kid within an inch of his fucking life if something is not done about him. And the worst Fashion sense fucking kid wears three different decades of styles. Plus I think he’s banging that other resident Tempest that hippie broad. Don’t give me started with her constantly slathering coconut oil all over her body just a creepy cookie brought with hairy armpits. She says she doesn’t use deodorant because it’s unnatural but if you smelled her that’s unnatural.

Example #2 Cassandra Levin: Why o’ why the fuck do I have to listen to every traumatic event that occurred in he life? “Oh my uncle fingered me, I was beaten by my stepfather with a frozen turkey in a pillow case, my mother dressed me up like Brook Shields in that movie Pretty Baby, and trotted me around Old Town in Pasadena. I gotta listen to this shit while I’m watching episodes of CSI in the Day room…REALLY?!?! Bitch if Brooke shields got over it you can get over it. Then the food! Just like momma used to make except she didnt shit in it! How about something a little more complex then meatloaf, pasta, baked chicken, and potatoes? Every week the same shit!

Look, I know I’m here on a scholarship and I’m grateful for that but GET IT TOGETHER HERE! I really hope you address some of these issues my sobriety is at stake here.

Suicide Pros Inc. 

I’m Steve Marsden. I’m the owner-operator of Suicide Pros™.  (Patent Pending – soon I hope to have hats, shirts, and coffee mugs.)

So a couple of years ago I was wrought with suicidal ideations. Just this insatiable obsession to commit suicide, I tried with the old hose in the exhaust pipe, got to coughing like I had tuberculosis and quickly exited the car. Main reason for this attempt, I was distraught saddened by the death of my cocka-a-poodle “Fleming.” In my grief, I did a horrific amount of drugs, drank copious amounts of alcohol, hell I even went on a sex tour to Thailand. But nothing could fill the empty hole that the passing of Fleming left. I called a couple of different suicide hotlines.

I found them very trite, mundane and just outright insincere. The anger and intolerance I was experiencing while talking to these ‘suicide professionals’ actually saved me from killing myself. I went from suicidal to homicidal in just minutes. Then it came to me. Maybe people need to be angered and pissed off in order to turn their thoughts from suicide? Maybe that whole tender loving care thing was the wrong approach. Maybe people need to be put in check. Especially first world shitters that have everything they want and need, and basically just complain and are sad because their souls are so empty and they have nothing but material belief in their cockamamie little minds.

Let’s face it, the dead western soul is the reason for the dead western mind, which is no doubt the springboard for suicidal ideations. Whoa, how’s that for some shit bird street philosophy. So but anyways I volunteered at a couple different suicide hotline locations, they fired me. Anyway it was voluntary and I needed to get paid, plus they didn’t like my style. Apparently I was to ‘confrontational.’ So I started my own suicide hotline.

So far no one has offed themselves, and I’ve got three and a half stars on Yelp, but even the bad reviews are good because the bottom line is they didn’t kill themselves. My confrontational style and sincere lack of care (based on the fact that you’re somebody I don’t even know) has created a business model that has turned the suicide hotline business upside down! One survivor (who called Suicide Pros™ many times) even gave me a room to live in her house. I’ll call her Margaret for the sake of anonymity. She’s one of these old ‘Sunset Boulevard’ type broads.

Her resentment and anger of not being the young vivacious screen gem of yesteryear brought on suicidal ideations that even a contract from Louis B. Mayer couldn’t lift. I put her in her place, and I told her who she was, where she was, and it was time to give up all that bullshit maybe take an improv class, or do standup comedy, or tell the stories of yesteryear on The Moth or some other bullshit public forum. Live for now and stop all this whiny old starlet horseshit. It worked. She has an improv troupe (The happy old shit heels) that tours the country and they’re all 60 or 70 somethings.

People love them because they’re real and they act their fucking age, they get lots of laughs at all the childish games that they constantly come up with. I get a lot of schmucky little millennials calling me as well. Sad or angered over mommy and daddy’s divorce, being bullied at school, or not even being able to reach the next level in some shitty video game. Hey whatever the case, they need to get put in check as well. Sometimes I threatened to do a three-way call with their parents (like I even have the parent’s number). So for $49.95 (PayPal only 5 day guarantee) Suicide Pros™ is your best bet for value, to save your life, and to start anew, or leave the planet with a clear conscious.
Real enrichment. Check for our (Tell me why I don’t like Mondays) special.

Revenge

Milicent Penelope Owens broke up with me. She said that I wasn’t attentive to her needs, and according to her Gramma Owens “not a proper suitor.”

I’m still trying to wrap my head around that statement. I’m in shock. Two years we were together. A lot of laughs, what I thought was romance, and a real heart to heart match. I’m trying not to completely lose it. I can’t even watch “our” shows or listen to “our” music, it all reminds me of her. So I started seeing a psychiatrist, one Dr. William Deutch. Hoping he could better explain what “wasn’t attentive to her needs, and not a proper suitor” means. For now, he wants me to focus on me, on Preston, and to really be honest about the feelings that are surfacing.

He said, “Preston, let’s be attentive to Preston first. Let’s explore what Preston’s,” he stops and raises his hands and makes those hook-like quotation marks, which I hate, “needs are.” He believes there may a be a connection between old abandonment and grief issues. Don’t get me wrong, I mean that is good and great, but I have reason to believe that Milicent’s is having sexual congress with Timothy Allen Pawsett. The guy is a complete sociopath. Pawsett frequently stands against the wall near the entrance of Coffee Talky Café on his cell phone watching everyone walk in and out. He leans back with his right foot against the wall.

He sports Vaurnet shades which he occasionally tilts down when an attractive woman or girl of any age walks by. He wears beige Levi Dockers, a pink Izod La Coste shirt and a baby blue sweater tied around his neck and always wears the same beige Sperry Top-Siders boating shoes (he’s never been boating.). His whole eighties throwback fashion is just, like morbid. He looks like the poor man’s version of James Spader in “Pretty in Pink”. He stands there with his jaw clenched talking through his bleached veneers while looking everyone up and down. I don’t think he’s on the phone with anyone.

His upper lip is always slightly curled like he’s being forced to smell cat feces.
Five years ago, when I was a freshman, (Pawsett was a junior) while changing into my gym clothes he hit me with a K-Swiss sneaker so hard it left an imprint on my back. I tried to fight him, but Brandon Warren jumped in and they both really busted me up. Brandon was expelled, he was an evil asshole too, one time he put Ben Gay in Stanley Harper’s jock strap and hung him from an equipment hook. So anyways week later I went to Goodwill and bought 10 pairs of old sneakers, really ugly ones. Reebok, British Knights, LA Gear et al.

The ugliest colors too, pinks, greens, yellows, and browns. Then I went to Bob’s True Value hardware and bought a couple of dozen tubes of Crazy Glue. While everyone was in the third period I snuck out to the parking lot with a hefty bag full of shoes, and I crazy glued them all over the windshield, the t-tops and the back window of Pawsett’s classic Gold ’88 Camaro, which he lovingly referred to as Goldy, he even had 1GOLDY1 on the license plate. I also crazy glued the door locks and the window seals, which later on that same evening proved extremely challenging for the AAA locksmith to open.

When he came out to his car there was a crowd of people standing around it gawking, he screamed and yelled through clenched teeth and sneering lip desperate to keep his composure. “OH MY GOD! YOU FUCKERS! WHO DID THIS TO GOLDY? YOU SCUMBAGS!”

He desperately tried to pull the sneakers off, some tore off, but the soles stayed intact and stuck on the glass. I watched, then I walked by, and he ran up to me flailing his arms like he was going to punch me and I kicked me in the balls so hard it lifted him about half a foot in the air. He screamed a feminine scream that took all the spectators aback, then the crowd oooh’d and ahhh’d and laughed obnoxiously. It took gallons of acetone to get the sneaker soles off the glass. The acetone also damaged and bubbled Goldy’s paint job, which was thousands of dollars to refinish. I was never charged with the crime because no one saw me in the act.

My new Neighbors have been Scientologists for 35 years.

But they haven’t raked in any financial benefits. When they first moved in I asked them about Dianetics (there was a large bumper sticker on the car which appeared to be a serious broken down ghetto sled with the “Dianetics” sticker and the symbol, which by the way, looks like a reworked Swastika.

“Yep, we’ve been with the church 35 years,” said Ray, “haven’t we Sally.” said the 60 something gangly 6′ 4″ Toby Jones look-alike. Sally looks tired, quite older and using a walker. I asked about the “Going Clear” doc regarding the church on HBO. “Bunch of Bullshit, those people didn’t get what they wanted,” He said angrily. “C’mon, what could Paul Haggis possibly want from Scientology.” “What everyone wants! To be an OT! An Operating Thetan!” We sat and looked at each other for a moment. “So Paul Haggis did not achieve “OT” status and quit? that’s not what he said in the Doc.” “He’s lying, they are all lying. It’s a shame after everything the Church did for those fuckers.” He said sadly. “What about the money it cost to get through all those levels?

I mean, I’ve heard it’s really expensive.” He grinned, “So is college, look this is cheaper than any university you go to, it’s less of a scam then university as well.” Ok he has a point there, But, “Well yeah but the money you pay for Scientology is only good for just that.” He was now going through boxes and boxes of books. all Dianetics teachings. “Look I will give you all the literature and info you need on it and give you some free tests, you’ll see once you get involved with The Church, there is nowhere else you need to go.”He handed me what look liked a thirty-five-year-old large (possibly 800-1000 page) book, titled Dianetics: Everything you need to know. “Look read this It’ll read this, it’ll explain everything.” I was already in the middle of a thousand page plus book, “Infinite Jest.” Which were at least 1000 times more fascinating. I looked him in the eye, “I’m never gonna’  read that, but thanks anyway.” I walked away. “Ok but you’ll never know the truth, the church can save you.” Man, how many times have I heard that in my life.

Bethany’s Break Room Rant

All writing kept intact and original to preserve the downright ignorance of the piece.

Bill and my sister Irene were French kissing and touching all up on each other in the God Damn company break room, it was disgusting. I mean between the sights, and the sounds (a lot of heavy breathing, both are fat and got deviated septums) and the smell the break room has anyway (it’s like the rotting vapors of 40 different frozen entrees in there.) I mean they’re both obeast and ugly as sin, so that’s like a double violation too, like a bad day at Hometown Buffett for all your 6th senses. I’m trying to just sit down and eat my Panda Express and maybe smoke a Pall Mall and these two are sitting there rubbing each other’s crotches and chests and licking out each other’s mouth holes, like a child licks Duncan Hines’s chocolate frosting out of a God Damn mixing bowl!

I was like ‘HEY! Excuse me!” They slowly stop and then Irene was like, “Bethany they ain’t no excuse for you, you sorry assed schoolmarm!” And she went back to liking on Bill’s neck and chin area like it’s a God Damn whore house or a speakeasy. She was always the strumpet of the bloodline, she got her titties done and like Daddy says she got no business putting a second story on an unsteady foundation, so anyways this cow ain’t got no shame, she was the town whore since she first started bleedin’ and the bitch still using abortion as a form of birth control, and says stupid shit like “ya’ll shouldn’t hate,” whenever the family tryin’ question her on it.

So but anyways, I was like, “Irene I’ll take your sorry fat rear end to human resources and this time they’ll fire your elephantine ass on account of being caught a public display of affection when Steve was fingering out that sorry, syphilitic, sloppy, slit in the stairwell!” They both stopped and stared at me, Bill’s jaw-dropping. Now my sister Is older and way bigger and fatter than me, bitch weighs 290 but I’ll kick that whore’s ass 5 ways til Tuesday and back again. And plus I’ll do it right here in this God Damn break room.

Because just two weeks ago that skank tried to throw hot Nescafé on me and I picked up a Walmart plastic folding break room chair and hit that cow right on her flabby back. Then they both got up. I said “that’s right slut lemme’ see that walk of shame, and Bill you a hot mess too, a real piece of hideous horny hillbilly trash! You sound like a God Damn Choctaw hog with that breathing issue, You married with 3 kids, and you’re in here doing this with this swine? I’m a call your wife Beth-Anne and tell her about your scuzzy ass if I ever see you doing this shit again.

I mean Beth-Anne is butt ugly but Irene here ain’t no Connie Sellecca either and this skanky trollop got crabs too, don’t ya’ Irene? And who knows what else. Cuz the bitch has banged everyone in here from the custodians to the CEO! Then she’s all, “Bethany I’m warning you, SHUT UP! Or…” I was like, “…or what? You gonna send a swarm crabs after me?” she turned and walked toward the snack cabinet, she had a mini skirt on and her backside looked like two ice cream cones supporting a russet potato. She opened up the cabinet while saying, “poor Bethany, still can’t get a man, pussy been on lockdown since uncle Willy violated it at the family reunion in ’98.

Get over it already girl we all got our crosses to bare and yours ain’t no big deal.” Now you would think this little TMI moment would truly send me into a tizzy. But it don’t, she’s the only one got her little puddy diddled by Silly Willy, and that bitch thinks that he did that shit to me too. So but then I’m like, “Bitch Silly Willy was only up in your claptrap with them ham-hock hands, he ain’t done shit on my real estate. Now you want me to really start outing your bizness? Like, let’s have a mother fucking intervention on them winter skid marks on those god damn Victoria’s or I should say Irene’s Secret shit and blood stained drawers?”

Bill looked like he was holding a dry heave and then to really push it I say “oh you ain’t heard Bill? It looks like a cherry chocolate festival in there.” Bill gagged and walked to the sink and Just then Irene quickly turned came at me with a 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. She was like “NyAAAHHHHH.” And I sidestepped her and Dr. Pepper like exploded on that bitch and Bill went running over there screaming, “I’LL HELP! I’LL HELP!” and then Irene just stood there screamin’ sound like that bitch caught the Holy ghost! I just sat down and started eating my food and I lit a cigarette and ate and smoked cuz all this bullshit ate into my lunch time so I had to do both. I leisurely got up and walked by with my middle finger in her grill ‘cuz she a bitch and a whore. But deep down I love her, she my kin.

Intro to yours truly.

You would think after getting shot at on the 405 freeway back in the mid-1990’s (for flipping somebody off) that It wouldn’t happen again, or more importantly just chill out on the road in general, I’d be Zen-like.

 

Nope, wait. Before I get into the next “the second time I got shot at” story, that occurred on the 10 freeway, I’ll elaborate. It’s a “hot as fish grease” day,  August 1994. I’m making my way over the Sepulveda pass to The West Side. I had just left my Mother’s condominium in Van Nuys. As I was leaving she stated, “well, should be a breeze at this hour, but you never know.”

I’m in a Jeep Wrangler ‘soft top’ no air conditioning, the top is up. Traffic is moving at about 7 miles an hour in fits and starts. I’m light-headed and nauseous from the amount of exhaust I’m breathing via the windless baking heat. I feel like I’m in a Glad sandwich bag or a rolling greenhouse. The Jeep seats are plastic, the top is canvas and the windows are plastic.

In my haste to ‘get on the road’ I neglected to zip off the back and side windows, and although the front is zipped down I’m not getting any relief. This is not ‘a breeze.’ I started going into deep morbid reflection about the Jeep purchase. The main thought was; a year and a half later and $12,000 in payments to go I felt like a sucker, an absolute dupe, a patsy. Glendale Jeep got me good. They saw me coming.

I sat for 7 hours bargaining and negotiating for this ‘utility’ vehicle that already had three recalls. I maxed out three credit cards as a down payment for this rolling memory of constant financial remorse. It haunted me frequently. As all this was turning in my head like sneakers in a dryer, a Toyota Celica cuts into ‘my’ lane and I stop short, almost hitting the left rear quarter panel. The bumper of his car has a plethora of 12 step bumper stickers, “easy does it, clean and crazy, let go and let god, one day at a time, my other car is up my nose,’ and of course the car has no license plate.

I honk, he immediately puts his left finger out the window and shakes it. That’s always a strong move, you cut me off, then flip me off. You do it with real authority, with a shake like you would a fist, but with ‘the bird.’ I had been listening to Fugazi’s “Waiting Room” my self-pity quickly turned to homicidal rage. I turned off the music, ‘Fuck you piece of shit!’ I yelled.

His tinted windows were all rolled up, he was sitting in the cool composed comfort of air conditioning, looking for someone else to impede on. I pulled into the right lane and got up next to him. I was quickly making hand gestures for him to roll down his window. He rolled down his window, he was wearing a suit and tie, I imagined he sold cars or worked in telemarketing sales. “Hey asshole, don’t fucking cut me off, then you flip me off like it’s my fault, you piece of shit, and what’s up with all those stupid bumper stickers?” We sat and made eye contact for a moment. “So what are you going to do?” He asked blankly. Fuck this guy. “Pull over ‘Mr. clean and crazy’ and I’ll give you a beatin’ you won’t forget.”

He put the car in park and slowly reached over to the glove box, my intuition quickly told me he had a piece. He pulled it out, it looked similar to the .380 I had at home, which I wished I had now. I quickly zipped up my jeep window, huh?

I saw him pull back the slide and jack around with his left hand. Then he lay against the passenger seat. Expressionless, he leveled the gun right at my face. Quickly, I sat back in my seat as hard as I could. Am I going to die? Here? Now? I heard the .380’s report and immediately smelled the cordite. I had been shot at before but had never been at this much of a disadvantage. Visual assessment. I wasn’t shot! I saw a small bullet hole in the plastic jeep window and was strangely grateful that I had zipped it up.

Cars were honking and there was a 5 or 6 car gap in front of him, so I quickly cut over and floored it, I went into the emergency lane and drove like, well, like I had just been shot at. I looked in my rearview, he wasn’t pursuing and I got off at Sunset and headed west. I pulled over. I balled my fists and pounded on the steering wheel and went into a Tourette like rage, “You motherfucker! You column of human waste, scumbag, dope fiend, alcoholic piece of shit!” I finally stopped. Most of those insults were truly things I also felt about myself at one time or another. I took a breath. I chilled.

I thought about the fact that I had nowhere to rush to, I had no job, and I had almost got myself killed over a patch of road. I continued to drive like an asshole even with the bullet hole through the plastic window. I’m hard-headed, I’m a little insane. I don’t learn lessons from these experiences and then just act right. There is no need to tell the other story. I’ve mellowed out a little,  except for following a guy to Starbuck’s and beating him down. That felt justified. So, I’m on the Glendale freeway going north. In fast-moving traffic, a grey Mercedes-Benz gets in front of me and slams on the brakes. My old dog Roscoe flies against the dashboard with a loud yelp. I’m enraged and mystified all at once. Did I do something to this guy? Did I cut him off earlier? He’s laughing and holding his middle finger out the window, his arm accompanied by a horrible silvery green, cable-knit sweater. His license reads BADAZMB. The freeway divides. I’m going west, he’s going east, but I can also see he’s signaling to getting off at the next exit.

I know the exit. There is a Starbuck’s, Noah’s Bagels some other little retail stores and a theater. I get off the next exit and double back. I have a strong feeling he is at (or going) to Starbuck’s. I drive and park my car in a shaded corner and slowly slink around the parking lot. I see his car BADAZMB. I walk up to it look around, nobody is watching. I key the fuck out of it, both sides all the way across, “This is for disturbing my dog Roscoe.” I turn to go back to my car, I can’t. I turn around and walk to the Starbuck’s, I go in. Steely Dan’s ‘Babylon Sister’ is playing. I look around, I see him and his bad sweater in the corner. He is on his computer.  Maybe he is writing about me? I look around again, no cops but a lot of people of all ages. I walk up to him. Stand over him on his right side. He looks at me, he has NO IDEA WHO I AM.

He Just did all that bullshit and has no clue. “Can I help you?” I look out the window and point to his car. “Is that your Mercedes?” He looks out the window. “Yes. Why what’s up… Just then I grab him with my left, hold him down in his chair as I pummel him with my right fist. Five quick shots to the right side of his cheek/chin area. At the same time I’m saying, “YOU MOTHERFUCKER, THIS WILL TEACH YOU TO STOP SHORT IN FRONT OF SOMEONE ON THE FREEWAY FOR NO REASON!” He’s screaming, ‘I’m sorry! I’m SORRY!’ Very quickly people start leaving the store. “We’re calling the cops,” I hear a voice yell at me, So I turn and say ‘Alright I’m leaving.’ I walk out. Now I’m paranoid, was all that on camera? Am I gonna go to jail? For days after I feel horrible, scared, and have an emotional hangover that reminds me of how quickly violent I can turn. Since then I’ve learned to seriously pause or pull over when I feel it surfacing. It takes serious vigilance. This is a reminder. I will lose my freedom if I let some shit stain rock my game.