I've been nice all day long and I'm really longing for a fight. I've had a store full of nice people saying nice things, and me being all nice and helpful and smiling.
Yeah, well. I'm done.
Here's a teensy bit about me: I'm the last of eight--count 'em--eight kids. Everyone says, "Oh, you were the baby, I bet you were spoiled rotten!"
Not so much.
It was like living with a pack of wolves, and I was the runt of the litter. Eight kids plus parents in 1240 square feet of living space. Feral children have had more personal space. I had to fight with five adolescent brothers, and a sister who would threaten to kill me if I went to sleep-- leaving a knife on the dresser for dramatic effect. I kept one eye open every night of my life while living at home. My oldest sister, the elder of the tribe, was my surrogate Mom, but she was no help at all against the tide of aggravation directed my way.
So, I learned to fight--I could never hope to be heard-- and kept low to the horizon in order to be less of a target. How I longed for attention!-- and rued it daily. But I learned how to draw blood by snapping a wet towel repeated on my brother's knee, how to bite, kick, and fight like the whirlwind's own child. That never manifested itself outside my home, fortunately, except in fierce competition in track and field events.
Lucky me, I have a blog now. Lucky you, I've been mostly nice. But I've just been too nice. It's time to kick shins and hand out penalty cards, and I'm about ready to start with politicians except that would seem too well-intentioned and virtuous.
No, I need to kick a troll... some Sofa King Wee Todd Ed idiot that needs thrashing.
I'm gonna go check around. This shouldn't take long.