this morning #190.

this morning, in the dim lights of the garage, his fists of fury took out his frustration on the ol’ punching bag in a way that made it clear that he had never actually boxed. that didn’t stop him from pounding away at the leather. he definitely wasn’t using his hands to help his fellow man or show his friendliness. constantly waking up pissed off was no way to live life but he’d been waking that way for as long as he could recall. anger at a string of ungrateful women. despair about still living under his parents’ roof. impatience at the pace of change. it was time for something to shift, an epiphany to arrive, but this time in the garage might not solve that.