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I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

 

-The Monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

Sometimes, the pressures of life become too much.  Sometimes, when I think of Orange Boy, or Sawyer, or how I wish I had more toys, or how Vacuum gets favoritism from Man and Woman, I feel so…angry.

I become filled with a vicious energy to which I must give vent.

Man and Woman don’t understand this.  Woman says, “You’re getting plenty of exercise.  We went on such a long walk!  Why did you do this?”  Man says, “He’s just going through a phase right now.”  They hide their more precious possessions for a few days before they go to work because they are afraid that I will ravage them when left alone in the apartment once more.

I wouldn’t do that.  I don’t think I would.  I only do little things.  I flip the edge of the carpet up.  I don’t chew the carpet–no–I just flip the edge up, just to let Woman and Man know: I am angry.

This week, I tore all of the kleenex out of the box and then chewed the box.  I know that kleenex is of little value and can be replaced.  I am considerate in my rage.

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