Smoking Fingers

I'm the type of person who keeps things bottled up, lets them build up, and then I need to let the explode. I was notorious for my explosions. I've since learned to keep my cool and rant and foam at the mouth to a friend. It doesn't matter if they actually listen, I just need to rant. Ranting is something I'm good at. I've worked it into an art form. I spew vitriol until the bile is gone and then I can move on. That's the key: move on when you're done.

It's been building up again. I'd let it off in small doses here and there. But I knew, just knew, I was going to blow up soon. I can't always rant over the phone or in person. So I type to friends. I rant and type. My fingers flying so quickly over the keyboard. Faster than I could even attempt at any other time. I almost imagine smoke coming from my fingers.


Here's my rant (Sorry, J, but I'm not done yet):

I know what you're doing. I know that all of the ill behavior is being done just to get a reaction. I won't react. If you're going to be childish, I'll treat you like a child. I'll not reward bad behavior with my attention. I'll ignore. I'll stay cool. I'll be calm. And I know, oh how I know, just how much that irritates the living shit out of you. Go ahead and rant all you want at me, it just makes you look bad. If you want to show all of the maturity of an 18-month old? By all means, go right ahead.

You know what buttons to push. I also know yours. Never forget that. I could be cruel if I choose. But really? You're not worth the effort. You're not, and never really have been, that important to me. I don't hate you like you say. I don't love you either. You've always just sorta been there. In the periphery.

Sometimes you'd come into focus just long enough to annoy, but I'd know that eventually you'd fade once more. And you did. You always did. I was happiest during those times when it seemed like you weren't even around. You were always too busy. Busy being elsewhere, loudly telling anyone who'd listen how wonderful you were, how perfect things were. You didn't hear people mocking you, laughing at you, behind your back. I did.

Or maybe you did? Maybe that's why you got so loud. Why you talked so much. Were you trying to convince them or yourself? Maybe you saw how unhappy we were when you came into focus for just that little bit. Maybe it ate at you. Maybe it still eats at you. Always trying to bluster and prove something. To whom? Me? The one who never backed down? Or her? The one who pitied you?

Which did you hate more? The fact that I never thought of you as the golden god that you so wanted to be or that she pitied you? That I, so young, called you on your bullshit? Or that she knew you weren't anything special? That she was too good for you.

You can lie to others all you like, but they don't believe you. Don't you realize that yet? They don't want to take care of you either. They see what you're like. They know you. I wonder how you can reconcile all of your lies since you found your god. I wonder if you still know the truth or if you've told yourself your lies for so long that they're the only truth you now know. I wonder if this is why you fear growing old. Dying. Then you'll have to face your god with your lies. Will he forgive you for what you've done? Or, more importantly, can you forgive yourself for all you have done?

As for me? I wish you the peace you never will have. I forgive you, but I will never forget. And, no, I won't piss on your grave like you said. I won't be there at all. Do you know why? It'll just be any other day for me. Only you'll stay faded and away.

And I'm done. Now I walk away.