Odds are good you're not going to want to know me anymore after you read this.
Because I can be so very hateful.
I don't like to admit it even to myself, because mostly I try to think that for the most part, people are good, and they try their best. And the more positive you are the better the world is.
I do try, despite my rants and petty complaints. I promise.
But then someone close to me will make me really angry. And I will think vile, pernicious thoughts. Worse, I will voice them
Which puts them out into the universe.
I try not to hope them. But even coming up with such negativity is bad karma. And they're extreme and terrible.
Like how I wouldn't mind if his wife got hit by a truck tomorrow. Or got that flesh-eating, drug-resistant bacteria. And too bad that operation last year was successful.
I'm not exaggerating. These are vile, deadly things.
I went so far as to ask Nick, who, when my wrath pours out, is always horrified by how venomous I can be, if he has any contacts who'd be willing to harm someone.
I mean, seriously. In his college summers, he worked construction in New Jersey with a bunch of ex-cons. Those guys used to harass women walking by and inject tequila for a quick buzz and tell him jail stories. Tell me they wouldn't break kneecaps for cash.
He says he's got nothing. No Jersey connections.
And I know he's of no use in these situations; the most he's willing to do is smear dog poo under a car door handle.
It's not just fear of jail. It's the unwillingness to behave horribly and hurtfully.
I don't want dog poo. I want soul-sucking pain.
Bad karma. Bad person. Bad, bad, bad.
See the kind of darkness that rushes out when I open the angry door?