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.