July 3rd, 2008

Made of Fight

It's becoming a common theme in my dreams lately.

I fight in my dreams.

Not the pussified hair-pulling and face-slapping kind of fights either. My fights are full contact engagements.

Just this evening I took on a man twice my size. Apparently the way I was looking at him didn't really bring out his pacifist nature. He confronted me; I didn't back down or feel intimidated.

I'm fuzzy about what happened next, but I clearly remember giving him  facial reconstructive surgery - without the anesthesia or surgical  instruments.

All throughout I am permeated by this surge of euphoria as his nasal bones fractured like bloody Koko Krunch.

There was no remorse, no sympathy. There was only aggression. I drove yet another fist into his gut. My cold mind hummed in the background, ensuring I inflicted maxiumum blunt trauma.

I say this with no shame: it felt good. It felt like a huge relief, like a weight off my shoulders.

Suddenly I see the immense genius behind Fight Club. Damn.

I am definitely Jack's pent up aggression.