hackneyed angst

Once upon a time, there was a young man named Brandon. He had just gotten over being afraid for the first twenty-six years of his life—fear of Hell, fear of everyone rejecting him, fear of never being who God wanted, blah, blah, blah. For about four years, he was genuinely happy. Sure there were moments, but overall, happy. For a couple years there, happy doesn’t even begin to cover it. This same man is now older, once again fatter, and angry all the time. About everything. Angry that his country continues to have an endless line of fucking stupid idiots as presidents who consistently make choices that fuck up our country for the endless seemingly unending future. Angry that his parents, who have worked so hard, and done so much for other people and their sons have had life do nothing but shit on them with increasing voracity for the past two years. Angry that students’ parents still believe (after years with me) their chronically lying child when they come home and say they did absolutely nothing and but Mr. Witt gave them a consequence anyway. Angry that there is three days worth of dog food left and there is a week until payday. Angry that I found the man I never dreamed I’d find only to have my guts ripped out and shredded on a daily basis. Angry that I am fool enough to still feel. Angry that every damn Norah Jones’ song sounds exactly the same as the last one, only more watered-down and blasé. Angry that I’m angry and have lost my old Christian skill of stuffing it all down and appearing perfect. Angry that when I finally get to sit down and write some amusing things that were in my head, this is what spews forth from me.