And then there was that one time I was so full of hurt and rage that I wrote a letter equally as hurting and raging. Paper soaking wet with piss and vinegar. Stabbed dead with my pen.
And then I was out in my garage smoking with letter in hand, still seething, feeling as if my head were about to collapse in on itself.
So I lit said retaliatory manuscript on fire and tossed it into the trash can, hoping my pain would disappear in the smoke and I’d be left with ashes inside and out.
I watched mildly satisfied as the flames slowly engulfed my writings. Not overly satisfied but that would do, pig.
And then the trash can caught on fire because it was made of solid plastic. And then I thought I might’ve taken it a little too far as I frantically tried to snuff the fire before the neighbors saw.
I don’t remember what I did with the burnt, buckled trash can.