Rage in a Cage: Another Night in Purgatory

Flipped someone the bird. Or tried to. Not sure I used the right finger. F*CK. That’s how it is with me. I haven’t used this gesture in years. Mostly not seriously.

But tonight, it was warranted. They went on my yellow, when I was turning left and my patience? Gone. Just gone. Like all the kindness I used to have for my fellow citizens. Fuck y’all! Turned on the red and laughed like a hyena as I gunned the engine.

Note to self: learn from PM’s Dad, to do the proper Trudeau salute.

I Am Angry

Drove like a kid with their first car – crazy fast and swerving around anyone too slow, which was everyone and anyone. Dared the pigs to pull me over. Knew exactly what I was going to say:

“Officer, you’re looking at a woman with NOTHING left to lose.”

Fuck y’all.

I had gone out to buy booze. No, I don’t want a bag. I want to carry the bottle from the neck like a dead goose. Gave a bunch of money to a homeless guy in front of the liquor store.

Got in my car and sang to the radio at the top of my lungs. Had to change the channel when the DJ mentioned the local bar – one I cannot go into anytime soon. Fuck y’all.

I Drink Alone

Fuck y’all.

How many times have I been patient and kind? How many times have I given people the benefit of the doubt?

On my walk the other day, I said a friendly, “Hi!” to not one but two people who just stared at me and said…nothing. Fuck y’all.

I drove like a madwoman, the madwoman that I am, burning the carbon off the engine in my little car. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.

When I stop, I put my head back, my chin jutting forward, a scowl on my face. Fuck y’all.

Take off like a shot, constantly moving the gearshift before the light turns, showing my impatience…then the green light…ram…ram…ram…first, second, third…pedal down and full-out fuck y’all. Screaming the engine and the lyrics as loud as ever I can.

Bela Lugosi’s Dead

There is no answer. There is no peace. There is no freedom. There is nothing but emptiness where my heart was supposed to live.

I hate everyone and everything. This country is f*cked. The world is going to hell in a handbasket. What the f*ck a handbasket is, is anyone’s guess. My guess is that it is carried by Klaus Schwab and contains items the elite particularly covet. The conspiracy theorists were right and it is too late for me to grab my survival gear and head for the bush.

The government, in declaring an emergency, can now freeze anyone’s bank account on the most spurious excuse. No mortgage, loans called in, credit cards cancelled. Yeah, you don’t need to worry but there’s…oh, perhaps 5% of us that will disappear. While you are crying for the Uyghurs in China, give a thought to those of us in your own country. Gone.

Easily Forgotten

Trouble-makers all! Fringe minority mother-f*ckers, yeah?

I am tired of trying to justify my existence to you. Explain and try to get you to see my point of view. Tell you how the isolation breaks my spirit. How I bleed when you carry on as if nothing is wrong – nothing has changed for you. You don’t care, as long as you have your Netflix and Skip the Dishes coming, is that right?

Didn’t write a letter to support me. Didn’t protest to help me get my rights back. Didn’t care enough to insist things were done where I could participate. You care more for comfort, or trees, or pipelines than some old friend who doesn’t want to be vaccinated.

You get what you deserve when they come for you. And they will. Fuck y’all.

So Few Friends Left

One is very sick. I text him daily. What can I say? I tell him I’m going to get drunk. He wishes me well.

Gods and Monsters playlist for all to hear. My soul laid bare…lyrics standing in. I am as raw as anyone ever was. Guts and no glory. No glory.

I understand Hemingway was drunk most of the time while he wrote. And, just guessing, probably much of the time when he wasn’t writing. The trouble with writers is that they won’t leave well enough alone.

What I would give to be back in my life at 23 again. Removing my sexy high-heel shoe and banging randomly on someone’s apartment door with it. Would that they had opened the door and saved my life.

Saved me. From myself, sure. From all this. All this horror and nightmare come to life government control.

Ordinary People

But it isn’t so much the government, is it? It’s ordinary people – neighbours walking their dogs and friends going for appies and coworkers working as if nothing had happened. Parents not asking how you are managing with, oh, you know, no job and all. Nothing at all is wrong. In their world, I guess nothing is wrong.

I am wrong.

I am alone and I am wrong.

Only here’s the thing: I am not wrong. And I have reason to believe that I am also not alone.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

“How long? Not long. ‘Cause what you reap…is what you sow.” – Rage Against the Machine


I hear a vehicle outside my house and look out to see a white van in the driveway. A girl gets out, opens back door, reaches in, and pulls out a bouquet of beautiful flowers wrapped in cellophane.

Quickly I step back, out of sight. Someone is sending me flowers! OMG. Who? I wait for the knock on the door.

It does not come.

I peek out to see her driving away. Wrong address.

I’ve always been at the wrong address.


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