In doing a little genealogical research, I discovered that a possible relative from the 1500s got into trouble with an ax. According to the records, he killed two people with the ax, and his brother helped him bury the bodies.
He was hanged. His brother was found not guilty.
I am not a violent person and don’t believe in solving problems with violence.
However, I am in menopause. I have had more violent thoughts in the last year than in all the 53 prior years combined.
I get mad. I get red-faced. I haven’t had a screaming fit so far, but who knows how long I can hold out? I have fantasized, lightly, about offing a couple of difficult people, but haven’t laid a hand on anyone in violence. Yet.
I had a student a few years back who told me in confidence that if he ever got a fatal diagnosis, he was prepared with a list of people he would send to the next world before he died. Laughing it off at the time, now I have toyed with a short list of people who would improve the world greatly by leaving it. Just in case.
Does it make me a bad person if I want to make the world a better place?
No, don’t dial 911. This is a post filed under “humor,” okay? There wasn’t a category for “humor in poor taste.”
I’m not going to take action on my little fancies. And come on, if you’ve ever read a novel where someone was killed who needed killing, and said to yourself, “Yeah! Woot!” are you really so very different from menopausal me?
If you’ve read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series, you know what I mean about being happy that Lisbeth had a golf club handy at just the right moment. With my little personalized fantasies of minor blood and guts, I’ve just strayed momentarily over to non-fiction for my subject matter.
I have moments where my cloud of generalized rage makes me think about Mr. T, from the old TV show, The A Team. Remember his line, “I pity the fool!”?
Sometimes when I hear a noise in the night, instead of getting scared, I think, “Go ahead and break-in to my house, knucklehead. I’ve got a hickory walking cane with your name on it.” Then the noisy squirrel or possum on the porch, sniffing my bad karmic energy, wisely runs away.
I do pity the fool who may give me a reason to go berserk in a just cause, like defending myself or others.
I’m not proud of my possible ancestor, don’t get me wrong. But in a tiny, trifling way, through menopause I may understand the homicidal urge just a weensy bit better.
I stay away from axes, but I do keep a hammer in my desk drawer in case I have a sudden impulse to “hang a picture.”
How about you? Any occasional homicidal fantasies? Random thoughts of violence? Please don’t forget, this is humor, people, humor. Have an ax-free day!
