Fuck you, cheese fries.

Does your job ever make you furious?

Like so furious that the homicidal rage you have for all things around you becomes this massive ball and shoots forth from your fingertips like that guy in Street Fighter? (Quick note: I Wikipedia-ed Street Fighter to see if I could remember which character was the one that did that, as I don't play video games anymore, and there was this insane abundance of information on each character...it was just fucking strange to see the bios of goddamn video game characters...does anyone else think that's just not right? Raising Ryu to the epic heights of South African apartheid and the jet aircraft?)

Anyway, I sort of had that moment today, but of course, not as cool and fluidly. So, I know this is the twelve billionth time I've mentioned it, but I work with children. And I hate them now. All of them. I used to like them. I used to be patient and kind, nurturing even.

Not. Any. More.

After the 716th "Lola, Lola, Lola, Lola, Lola (tap, tap, tap, tap)...did you write down my homework? (tap, tap) Do I have all my books? (tap, tap) Where's my paper? (tap, tap) Where's my paper? (tap, tap) I JUST HAD IT! (tap, tap, tap, taptaptap) Where's my paper?!?", I decided that his friends were too right: little Dickie was the most killable of all of them, and I'd be picking up a gunny sack the next time I was in Ye Olde General Mercantile. Wanna see a river, Dickie? Best view's at the bottom.

So, I am seconds from screaming at them now. I've got my metal ruler in my hand; the sharp edges are digging into my skin. I am wielding it fiercely, waving the pointy bits very near their defenseless little eyes, when thankfully the bell rings.

"OOOUUUTTT!!!!! Everyone. Now! I hate you. I don't want to see your grubby little faces until tomorrow!" (This, by the way, is not an exaggeration. I say this so much to them that I can play it off as a funny little joke we share...most of the time...unless the rage gets the better of my delivery.)

I usher them out, mouths hanging open, cowering visibly. And don't get me wrong, I am relishing every second of it. I lock my door and flee to the teacher's lounge where I find one of my colleagues heating his food--cheese fries. He is aware that I'm upset. His mouth opens slowly; I can see the words forming, pushing past his tongue.

"Wha--"

"Fuck you, cheese fries!"

I know. It's not even coherent. It's totally misdirected. I am pointing at him, pressed against the back of the door, evil eyebrows and all. I realize how crazy I look.

"Heh, heh. Kidding. Heh, heh."

Awkward smiles all around, little ooookay's. I--yeah, wait for it--give him one of those "shooting a couple of fake guns" hand signs, then retreat to the ladies room to question my sanity for the sixty-seventh time this week.

WHY AM I HERE? Ah, yes. I'm a fucking humanitarian.

Savages.