Where is the “Don’t Like” button

No, Actually, You’re Just Wrong

In which I fantasize about being rude

You’re wrong. Please get a clue. Shut up and listen. Stop being such a jerk. What’s wrong with you? Seriously, I’m losing it, here. I don’t even know how you can exist in the world with an attitude like that. Do you really hear the things coming out of your mouth? I’m mystified by your cluelessness.

I wish you wouldn’t assume that I agree with you. I wish I could tell you the truth about what I’m really thinking about. I wish I was somewhere, anywhere, else.

I wish you would see me. I wish you actually cared enough to ask me my opinion. I wish you would hear me. I wish I dared express an opinion. I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me so often. I wish you wouldn’t talk so loudly. I wish I didn’t feel so small.

Sometimes, I just want to tell you to go fuck yourself. Sometimes, I want to wordlessly scream. Sometimes, I’m scared of how much I can hate, how red my blood can boil, behind and underneath all the words I don’t dare say.

I’d like to be rude. I’d like to tell you off. I’d like to ruthlessly, freely, joyfully, rebelliously scream my defiance and hostility into the wind. I’d like to pile up my hurts and resentments into a massive bonfire, set it ablaze, watch it burn.

Instead, I struggle to contain my anger. I say “I’m sorry,” a lot. I say “please,” and “thank you,” and “that’s interesting,” and “mmm-hmm,” and “ok,” and “sure.” When I can’t help it, and the rage bleeds through, I weep helplessly afterward, turning anger into sorrow, turning an attack into a defeat.

But sometimes, you’re just wrong. Sometimes, I feel shockingly and inconveniently mad, and I really just want to be rude. I won’t. I don’t. I do everything I can to contain it, to transform it, to direct it into safer channels.

After all, I don’t want to be wrong, either. I want to listen to you. I want to be a good person. I want to see you. I want to know what you think. I want to hear you. I want to stop interrupting you so often, stop yelling at you so loudly. I want to think about what I’m saying before I say it. I want you to be able to tell me when you disagree with me.

I want you to tell me the truth more often. I want you to be able to be rude, too. I want you to tell me to fuck off, sometimes. I want you to tell me to shut up, if you need to.

Most of all, I want you to tell me when I’m wrong.