I am ill equipped, therefore, in ways of dealing with emotions other than burying them, and the helplessness I feel when I let the strongest ones get loose is all encompassing.
No matter how much I try to hold onto logical reasoning, everything else goes out the window when I am forced to have a conversation with that man and my anger is not white hot, but the flaming molten colour of Olde English Cider, directed at the little orange man in front of me, an unavoidable work colleague.
He is little (5'6") and he was orange when I first saw him, an unconvincing sun tan and he looked like a thousand year old corpse dug up from a peat bog, and he thinks he is always right and of course he is suffering from little man syndrome in spades and he thinks his point of view is more important than anyone elses and he DOES NOT listen to other people but still demands that they respect him without doing anything to ever gain that respect for his whole work ethos seems to be to find the one person he can delegate (I mean dump) the job onto.
We had a "clear the air" discussion last week where he told me that he did not have to justify himself to me and oh how I wish he did, how I would weigh him in my scales of injustice and sentence him to something suitably Sisyphean; but the best punishment of all would be for him to see himself through the wrathful eyes of others, and yes, I do volunteer my vision for that.
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