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The Word of the Bird #1

This is what happens when you give a girl a writing prompt that contains the word “angry” in it. I wrote this piece as a reaction to the 2016 election. I have never before read anything I have written out loud…much less on video tape (I included the words here to accompany the video). I hope that you all enjoy reading and listening to it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Every time I read it I feel insanely passionate and deeply turned on. xoxo Missy

It is difficult to not be angry

Anger and I we go together like bourbon and Marlboro Reds. Hookers and short skirts. Poodles and fluff. Fast cars and faster women.

Anger is a sweet seductive temptress who wraps her legs around my waist, runs her fingers through my hair, and whispers gorgeous tauntings of things that I could get away with if we lived in a lawless frontier.

There is a wrath that grows deep inside of me when I think of injustice. When children are in harms way, when women vilify men, when mothers treat their children like shit. Sometimes I visualize my anger twining itself around my hand like ivy, wrapping and winding its way through my fingers then as if my arms and hands have a mind of their own, I weave my hand through someone’s hair at the nape of their neck, rolling and rolling my hand around until my grip is firm and sure then BAM, I force their face into the edge of cement stairs pummeling their nose until it is non-existent. Rendering their face obliterated to recognition. This is what I would like to do to people who manipulate, who are narcissistic, who are sociopaths. This is what I would like to do to people who have hurt me and my family. This is my recurring dream.

Anger and I we go together like bourbon and Marlboro Reds. Hookers and short skirts. Poodles and fluff. Fast cars and faster women.

In this new America, injustice is everywhere. It has always been there of course, but for a hot minute it was forced underground and things seemed to be getting better for the underdog. For a split second in history women and girls and people of color were doing better, for just a second.

Sometimes I have this fantasy of myself in our new post-apocalyptic, nearly dystopian madness. Thirty pounds lighter with 6 pack abs in ripped up leather pants and motorcycle boots. Tits barely shrouded by my ripped up wife beater that has been torn to reveal an ample amount of cleavage. Civilization in ruins, dust everywhere, you know the scene. I emerge from the Trump rubble, guns on my back I am like a genius mix of myself, Tank Girl, Katniss Everdeen, and Eleanor Roosevelt. Equal parts diplomacy and badassery. Ready for whatever this new administration has to throw at me. I am the leader of the revolution, and I have had to set my anger aside to lead.

The anger remains there, just underneath the surface, dangling from my mouth like my cigarette (in post apocalyptic America you can smoke and not get cancer). If the anger goes away, what is there to motivate me to keep going? What is there to fuel my fire? Completely letting go of anger to get in a zen like state would completely change the molecular structure of who I am.

And so she sits, lounging on her crimson velvet feinting sofa, long luscious legs poised ready to spread, blood red dressing gown gaping to show just the very roundness of breast, auburn hair lit by flame. Seducing me. Taunting me to come and nestle into her curves to plot another wave of destruction.

But now I see her and she does not run ramshod over my emotions. I have figured out how to turn the tables on her. And so I sit across from her in my leather and my power, one leg draped over my enormous royal blue velvet chair. Cigarette in mouth. Whiskey in hand. Here to have a simple conversation about how to interlace her madness with my quest for justice.

Anger and I we go together like bourbon and Marlboro Reds. Hookers and short skirts. Poodles and fluff. Fast cars and faster women.

I do not lay awake at night and worry. To do so would be my undoing. It would unravel my sanity and leave me holding myself in the corner unable to extricate myself from the bonds of my curled up body. Instead I plot and plan. I build up my base. I train the next generation of activists and leaders. I blog. I tweet. I facebook. I educate and inform. I stretch my wings and seduce others with the beauty of a world made anew through justice.

The journey we are on is only perilous if we allow our anger to drive our actions but she must remain there, coyly seducing the very edges of our drive so that we do not sit idly by watching the boob tube waiting to be told what to do next. I do not believe that the world my children will be living will be nothing but rubble, for to think in such a way causes overwhelm and perilous sadness.

Instead I wrap myself in a shroud of the Phoenix mixed with a hefty dose of deep breathing and good food, laughter and sex, joy and fresh cut grass. I sit surrounded by the grace of the world, eliminate all thoughts of our current political administration, and dream of the moment when I shall infiltrate its membrane. The badass diplomat, rising from the ashes of her own torment to seize the power and authority of the political machine.

The fuel of my anger knows no limits. It will change the California family court system, it will completely reshape the way women access abortion and birth control, it will give young people a voice in all levels of government, it will tear down the patriarchy and give rise to the matriarchy. It will leave us so tuned in and turned on that we will have no choice but to get up from our chairs, kiss our anger so tenderly on the forehead, give her a smack on the ass for good measure, reach into the air and grab Grace by the hand and saddle up. With Grace securely in our hearts, souls and minds there is nothing we can’t accomplish.


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