I’m usually a mellow guy and get along with most everyone. Sometimes, though, I come across a person who clashes with my energy field so much that being in the same room sets off sparks of animosity, hatred, violence, and vengeance.
Ms. T. is one of those. The sight of her white hair and sardonically lined face puts my emotions into an altered state. She and I belong to the same writing critique group, and she savors her opportunity to tell me how insignificant my work is compared to hers.
I watch in trepidation as she lurks in her chair, waiting to critique my work like a hawk looking for a meal. Her beady eyes set upon me as though I’ll be lunch if I utter a sound.
Her turn to critique comes and she swoops in with cutting words.
“Your work is thrown together without much thought,” she says, and turns my peaceful nature into a violent volcano. Inside, my collection of synapses, flesh, and bone erupts and my emotions flow like molten rock.
I fire hot language right back at this white piece of feminine saline salaciously craving to emasculate me with her list of things I wrote wrong. I’m mortified that a shrew like her can bring forth my loathing.
Her fury is awakened by mine, and her next words slash my thrown together first drafts—according to her—comparing them to her carefully thought out Greek odyssey that she’s been writing for most of her life.
I’d like to be cool and intellectual and say I’m better than that, but I feel pitted like a dog, and my nature causes me to respond in kind. The replies that are backed up in my mouth come out laced with wicked words that flow through my lips, calculated so that she will taste the bitter flavor of my anger.
I feel like a fool for arguing with this demon that passes for a woman. I remember what my mother always said: “If you get into an argument with an idiot, it’s soon hard to tell who the idiot is.”
I try not to argue with her, but when I don’t, I have to pay the price holding my rage inside. It eats away inside at any pride I own when that spiteful woman spews her sardonic wisdom, saying it’s my problem and not hers. My volcano wants to explode and if I had the power of God, I’d certainly repeat his action and subdue her into a pillar of salt, shipping her off to Sodom or Gomorrah for repeating her disintegrating words in a hostile manner that calls for a reaction from my Id.