Safety in rage.

Rage is a safe emotion for me. Experiencing the depths of sorrow or fear, or loneliness -- unacceptable. Such things are to be detested. I write because I have no outlet otherwise; how it shames me to do so, as I feel it compromises my strength, or perception thereof.

I desire to strip clean and free, and run nude through the forest. Branches of trees whipping past me, the cold air piercing my lungs; a raw and elemental joy that comes from being clad only in the stark night, under the stars.

I am sure I have said this before...so verbose am I that I reiterate and do not even realize.

Bourbon is my drink of choice, when things get out of control. The Host prefers tequila, and I am fine with that, but bourbon...nothing is quite so smooth. Tequila can be consumed straight, but why? The lime and salt...the ritual involved is half the reason one drinks it. Bourbon, however...

I digress.

The flaming ice-sphere has disintegrated...I screamed to wash myself clean of the sludge enveloping me. I screamed until the throat was torn, until the lungs were spent, until the eyes felt bruised from the pressure of exertion. I can taste the blood, faintly: running down the back of the throat, coating it. I daresay we shall be unable to speak come morning.
An excuse for the bourbon, perhaps?

How I wish this body were male, at times...it cannot handle bare-knuckles fighting or the like. Some days I wonder if that really would quell this desire to hurt, however I believe deep inside that it would only exacerbate the situation.

For fuck's sake, why? Why?

I've lost every facet of myself with regards to proper decorum. My apologies.