PlazaJen: Passion Knit

Everyone has them: those people who, by their mere existence, send all your atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons and all that other stuff I didn't study, into one discombobulated, frenetic grinding mass of IRRITATION. The human equivalent of fingers on the chalkboard, sand in the vaseline, rough skin and hangnails while knitting with silk. By gum, you just want to stand up, walk over & pick up a 2 x 4, and pound the living shit out of them until the atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons calm the hell down or you pass out, whichever comes first.

It has to be chemical, combined with a strong biological instinct or something. Somewhere, sometime, back in the primoridial ooze or another life, one of those funny-smelling people did something to my ancestor, and imprinted a deep-seated revulsion right on one of my inherited DNA strands. Literally, the P. of her UNDERPANTS is evoking that same revulsion in me, and instead of getting the 2 x 4, instead of lashing out, I am calmly doing nothing. But my atoms and neurons and protons and neutrons are still churning, frothing, shouting, KILL! KILL! SMASH HER UNDERPANTS JUST KILL AND END THE STIMULI.

And don't get me started on the gnomes. They have to try to herd and wrestle all the churning molecules, and then THEY get pissy, and it's all I can do to not write scathing emails. So instead? I blog.