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I don’t like anger. I don’t like feel­ing angry. Put simply, anger always suc­ceeds in remind­ing me that my tem­per is one char­ac­ter­istic I inherit from my father.

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Today, I wanted to be angry so many times. I wanted to let my blood boil and my tem­per flare, to lash out without think­ing of the consequences.

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It wasn’t just the imme­di­ate situ­ation that was prov­ing to be annoy­ing, set­ting me teeth on edge, mak­ing me squeeze up my right hand to dig the nails into my palm and leave an imprint.

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No, if that’s all it had been — well, fine, a passing mood, I can cope with that. You might even say that I’m well-versed in such things. But this slowly brew­ing anger star­ted infect­ing my thoughts and drag­ging other top­ics on my mind into its maelstrom.

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Yet because this is the new me — that per­son who is try­ing not to let his emo­tions show through so eas­ily and so often — I remained silent. Grin­ning and bear­ing it. Grim­acing and bear­ing it. I think I may have been curt with some people, but I wasn’t rude to them — I hope.

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Then the moment passed. The lighted fuse was snuffed out. I real­ised that I was too tired to get angry, and too apathetic. I just couldn’t be bothered get­ting angry. And I don’t like anger, remem­ber? I don’t want those memor­ies of sharp, cruel tem­pers to apply to me. Not if I can help it, anyway.

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