I Am Not Nice

It’s been a weird trait that’s followed me all my life, but I don’t think it’s accurate.

Yes, I treat people with dignity. I am calm and shy and laugh at jokes. I do display all the marks of a “nice guy.” But much of that is learned responses to having sort of an anger complex. I brush off or deal with a lot of the general nuisances of everyday life. I have a rather long temper, you might say. But I get explosively angry when that temper cuts out.

I sort of have an anger complex. I mean a serious one. Most the people who know me would find that idea funny. That’s because I direct and divert it. I have great self control and have never lost it with a loved one–friend or family. Usually I take my anger out against myself, which is what I’m attempting to not do via writing this. Walking home this morning every person, all their small crap, I wanted to kick each and everyone of their asses. The two ladies who apparently don’t understand that other people walk on the sidewalk and don’t know how to avoid walking into them. The cell phone guy impressing his caller with how “it’s only Helser’s” (Helser’s is a brunch place in my hood that is pretty awesome, so it would be like saying “oh, I’m only eating lobster with caviar, ngah, ngah, ngah.”)

Niceness is how I adapt to the disgusting truth of human nature. If I was really “true to myself” as the New Age gurus say I’d be in prison. If half the suburban trash that stumbles onto my street saw “the real me” the doctors at the ER would scream bloody murder when they saw the bodies come through.

My friends, my family, I genuinely like all of you. I don’t ever fake sincerity of my love. But the rest of the population… middle-class, Old Navy, bourgeois mouth breathers, I want you all against the wall.


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