After a long frustrating day, enduring a job that is just about as bad as going to church (in some ways, far more depressing), getting low-balled for a job at a nonprofit that I used to badly, badly, badly want—an escape I have longed for and worked toward for MONTHS—what does this 21st Century motherfucker do? I drank some slim Russians (Caucasians with soy milk), clipped my 6th generation iPod shuffle to my shirt, told my sweetheart I would be listening to some loud music in the kitchen in case she called and I didn’t respond, then proceeded to blast a triple-shot of Slayer’s “Postmortem,” “Raining Blood,” and “Seasons in the Abyss” through my headphones while I stood at our sink and violently headbanged (and I mean violently; think Jason Newsted onstage during the ’89 Damaged Justice tour; Mari tells me she can hear my neck bones popping while I whip my head around; she describes it as “alarming”) as I washed our dishes.
This is what we’ve come to, folks.
This is evolution.
My 33-year-old neck already pulsing with tranquil pain, I couldn’t help but think about what my ancestors used to do to get their aggression out in their times. Maybe kill a woolly mammoth? Beat their ugly kids (that still happens; and of course they don't have to be ugly)? Or maybe my ancestors who were on Noah’s Ark fucked a kangaroo in the ass to release (because we all know every single creature was piled onto that Carnival cruise ship, right? Wink wink.) Or maybe our Neanderthal predecessors went Jackson Pollack with black tar on a bonfire-lit cave wall when they're thinking something Grimlock-like: "She not spread her legs for me. Me destroy!"
Its always been a farce, man.
But I’m still headbanging, fuckers.
However long this dance lasts.
