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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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