That Guy

I want to kill him, plain and simple. I alternate between wanting to track him down and murder him and plotting something more elaborate and devastating, Count of Monte Cristo-style. Before today, I always wondered if, despite being a soldier in the Army, I had the ability or even the will to kill another man. All the doubts evaporated today when she told me. My entire body went cold, and then numb. Never in my life have I experienced such hatred. I want to rip his eyeballs out, and force-feed them to him. I want to stomp on him until my foot goes though his stomach and crushes his spine. I want to commit upon him all of the horrible atrocities I've read about in war histories and biographies a thousand, a million times over. I want to beat him to a pulp with my bare hands, make his blood splatter the walls around me, and then gov him blood transfusions until he is dead not from blood loss but from severe damage to each and every part of his body. I want to set him on fire and listen to him scream.

I can do nothing. The maggot of a man is already behind bars. She told me too late, too late for anything but to wait on the laborous machinations of the justice system. This scum doesn't deserve a trial, or mercy, or his own pathetic life. He gave that up when he took what wasn't his to take. Up until this point, I believed in the rule of law. I have heard all the testimony I need to hear, now this trash has to die. A large part of me hopes he is in prison being given what he gave to others, but now I find it impossible to wish that on anybody else, now that I know.

She didn't have to suffer this alone. Almost two years, and no indication, no sign of this atrocity on her face. Every bit of me admires the incredible courage in my friend's little body, the strength of her spirit. Every bit of me screams Why, why did she feel as if she couldn't tell me, or any of us? Any of us would die for her, or her for us. I've never bonded to someone so quickly outside of my girlfriend, and I've never felt this level of emotion for the plight of a friend. I'll probably never be able to ask her.

She said she didn't want us to act any differently around her, to censor our bawdy jokes and our lewd comments. That was one of the reasons whe couldn't say anything to me for so long. Was I too busy trying to make jokes to be the friend I needed to be? Did I miss the signs? I'm wide awake at 1:13, trying my best to replay every little conversation or discussion we ever had, looking for some sign, some indication that this was lurking beneath the surface. So far, nothing. That doesn't mean it wasn't there, it just means I haven't found anything yet. God, could I have been a better friend? Could I? The question haunts me at 1:13.

Almost as much as the act itself, the questions and inevitable answers caused by his despicable act make me want to crush his bones with my fists. I can barely think straight. I should go to sleep, but I'm afraid. I don't want to wake up in the morning having forgotten this anger, having forgotten what happened.

We'll see.

The Daily Thought, Part I

Get a real damn dog, Obama. The president-elect (and I am so tired of hearing that phrase. It's bad enough we're about to put a man who wants to shake hands with terrorists in the White House without the little weasel trying to move in a month early) has narrowed his choices for "First Dog" down to a Labradoodle and a Portuguese Water Dog. Of COURSE Obama's choices would be

a.) Something that looks like a wet paper towel and
b.) Something foreign.

He could at least PRETEND like he's the President of a country besides Libya.