Tuesday, September 30, 2008
`The Original Fire Has Died and Gone, But the Riot Inside Goes On`
Bad Juror. Bad dream. Bad morning. Bad day.
The 50 degrees centigrade heated discussion with my Juror happened 12 hours ago. It's been a while since my last clash with the Juror. I can handle well disputes over all aspects but the dormant fire within me gets flaming like California forest fire when the Juror's laying down statements I hoped I'd not hear again, ever. I remember how the Fat Woman spit out words I hate from her huge lips. The Juror and the Fat Woman used different words but they came out the same like sterile, sharp scalpels. The Juror paid my subscription instead for an online IELTS review after I failed to subscribe through my Mom's credit card. The Juror chose to wire money, got the reference number. I assumed the Juror had the details like recipient's name. I swapped three emails with the company, they need the money named to a person. Told Juror about it, Juror got furious, heated like my Mom's stainless kettle whistling at six in the morning. Juror loves blaming like my Creator. Juror spent her remaining energies on blaming, wrangling repeatedly of `it-might-have-beens` and `it-could-have-beens`. I do not like to be sulked in `have-beens`. People addicted to `have-beens` may not get rich, financially and emotionally. The squabble between me and Juror became annoyingly loud, I could see my dear friend Berna assumed the role of an interested reader. Her eyes on the boring Smile magazine I took from the cheapest airline in the country. I laid down my primitive instinct, my Id and gave Juror my Ego. I said sorry. But Juror's aura did not change. It was still dark. I heard a polite woman whispering to Juror like's she's gonna help. I'd love to do some task ala `nip/tuck' that very moment, put that polite woman's lips into Juror's and I'd hear polite words. Polite words a 28-year old man would expect to hear from a 34-year old human. My Id drove myself again, I stopped talking until we bid goodnight. I blew the fire but the clash inside goes on.
I need to smoke and sip black coffee. I'll talk about my bad dream, bad morning and bad day when my Ego is back. Stop knocking on my door Superego, I don't like you.