Living in Ire-land

When I was a young man, in the depths of my scholarship, I never accurately estimated the way in which my adult life would play out. There have been a significant number of pleasant surprises, but there have also been less pleasant ones, which I've had to get used to. I doubt many young people ever dream of the tedious grind most of us are confronted with during our working days. I dread to work out the sum total of time I've spent waiting in line, commuting, or slogging through some thankless, boring task (paid or unpaid). In the stressful race to get to our workplaces in the morning, or in tired ache of doing shopping in the evening, my patience wears thin. People move so slowly at times, taking the most inefficient route to achieve what they are doing. This, combined with rudeness and surliness, brings dark clouds of anger over the calmest parts of my mind. Clenched jaw and fists hold back the rage that pounds underneath the flimsiest of veneers. We live in a society, however unlikely that may seem, and an outlet worthy of my rage is prohibited. The recurrence of these diabolical feelings has led me to search for an adequate release. Logically, one needs to change one's circumstances or change oneself. Unfortunately, I suffer from a condition where I have to consume food to fuel my body, which necessitates earning a wage. If I don't follow my strict diet of edible substances, I begin to feel unwell and could even die. I concluded that I must change myself and began researching meditation techniques and anchoring mantras. Each one I tried failed; some even drove me into a further rage. Then, in the tedious shuffle of queuing in Tesco's self-service check out, I had a breakthrough in anger control. Some mindless pleb misunderstood 'self-service' for 'self-serving' and selfishly skipped the queue right in front of me. My eyes became ablaze with contemptuous ire. There was one line down the middle, where the next person in line could take the next free scanner on either side. Cunningly deliberate or not, the egregious sack of shit acted as though there were two lines and he had just luckily stumbled upon the free one. As he sauntered over to the scanner, I felt like killing the dull-witted, self-absorbed dick bag. No meditation or mantra could restrain the fury inside my heart, but, fortunately, my mind offered me a solution. I envisioned how badly I would hurt him and make him realise what a hideous consortium of vileness he is. The initial drafts of my murder fantasy were implausible, gifting me with unrealistic speed and strength. As the evil-gasmic feelings electrified and then calmed my body, I rewrote the whole thing in my mind and murdered the hapless bastard perfectly and poetically. By the time I left the shop, I was completely calm and somewhat refreshed by the cold sweat the fantasy had brought on. I had beaten him into concussion with a tin of beans, before slitting his throat with the same tin. Initially, I had imagined beating the tin so hard it tore open, but a later draft simply made it one of those dangerously sharp ring-pull tins, which I opened and used as a blade. On a side note, if you do intend to slit somebody's throat, be sure to hold them upside down for a while, so that their last experience will be the inimitable discomfort of liquid going up your nose through the top of your mouth. Try not to do it for too long, as you want them to drown on their own blood.
I quickly gathered that sinking into a kill fantasy could solve all sorts of gripes I had with societies bountiful abundance of inconsiderate people — people who elbow their way onto the bus before everyone has exited; drivers who sit in the gridded yellow box; people who text while driving; cyclists who force you to side-step even though they shouldn't be on the pavement; cyclists who don't use the available bike lanes; cyclists who click their 'horn' even though they could circumnavigate you by moving onto the road, where they belong; cyclists who cycle the opposite direction on a one-way street; cyclists who go through red lights; people who refuse to pick up the shit their dog just took on the street; parents who exercise their divine right of kids; youths who play their generic dancy-pop songs on the bus through the poor quality speakers of their phone; insular dimwits who have yet to discover that the world isn't tailored to their every little need and put their feet on the seats of trains and buses; grown men who piss on public toilet seats; young men under the trance of pure obliviousness who leave dumbells in the middle of the gym floor (Did I mention that I go to the gym? Look at that rear delt development!) — all these and more I have murdered in a paradox of meticulousness and rage, ingenuity and blood-lust. The orgasm of violent fantasy leaves me relaxed and chirpy every time. I would recommend butchering people in your mind to any of you entangled in the frustrations caused by anti-social zombies. Feel the relief of sanding some dozy cyclist's face against the pavement, snapping the wrist of some teenager at the back of the bus, or stabbing some commuter in the leg. I'll spare you the details of how to deal with irresponsible dog owners.
If you encounter many disgusting anti-socialites in one day, reach for the bell-tower fantasy. A bell-tower isn't necessary for this one, despite the name, and hunting rifles are a plausible find, even in this country. Sweeten the fantasy by keeping one last bullet for yourself, allowing you to envision the beautiful slaughter consequence-free. And consequence free it is, regardless. We are the masters of our own thoughts, and, unless enacted upon, we are innocent. So, get out there and have the most malicious, horrifically bloody thoughts your imagination can afford.