Someday in my life, I want my friends to see me get angry. I think they may learn a newfound respect for me on that day. I want something to cause it—someone gets victimized, something remains undone, someone tries to make someone else feed bad, or an animal gets hurt, or it could be a million other things—and I want my reaction to be blind, seething, forehead-popping rage. Someone will hurt me or threaten me, or will try to take things from me.

Someone may threaten someone else, or hurt someone I love, or demonstrate such ignorance as to be actually harmful. Maybe someone will keep me from doing what I want to do, or will try to get me to be like them. Or they will just randomly assault me in some way, physically, verbally, psychologically. And I will snap. I will get angry. I will lose all sense of modesty, propriety, politeness, composure, and—for one brief moment in my life—I will become an emotion.

I don’t want anything bad to happen intentionally, just for the selfish purpose of giving me an outlet for my unaddressed emotions. I’d rather nothing bad happened in this world to anyone, love or stranger. But bad things do happen. I just want to get angry about it, one of these days.

I will not hurt anyone else who has not hurt me, nor will I do anything bad or wrong. I might actually help or save someone. I will only react to the source of my anger, only be an equal and opposite reaction. Perhaps it will be the buildup of a lifetime of unexpressed anger, or perhaps it will only reflect the moment in which I am living. But it will be real, and it will be me and no one else. For that angry person lives inside me, and someday, I want my friends to meet him.