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    Some people seem to be angry all the time. They have a constant boiling point, and then “BOOM!” I avoid them like the plague. I think I’ve only gone ballistic—maybe—five times in my entire life, and it’s not a pretty sight. It takes a lot for me to lose that kind of control. Also, I can’t stay angry at anyone. It’s too exhausting and self-destructive.

    However, now, in Tucson, there’s a “fun concept” called, THE BREAKING POINT RAGE ROOM, where people pay to, “break, throw, and kick things to release all of that pent up anger.” Being good citizens, the owners recycle old electronics, glass bottles and anything else that’s “fun to smash.” They have even added “Ax Throwing” into the mix. It’s an escape experience to do
    “team building,” and the new place to have a “fun party.”

    Some fun! However, I do admit that sometimes I have been tempted to throw an ax at my television set during the evening news. So, what kind of food do they serve at a rage party? I assume that well-ground meat, smashed potatoes, and pickled beats (Yes, I can spell) are on the menu.

    Also, there should be a doctor on call to entertain while stitching up the party guy, who fell into the debris, while sledding on crushed glass. Surely, party-goers must sign a waver not to hold the owners liable, because a hefty lawsuit, by a person filled with rage and glass shards, could bring the whole enterprise down with a resounding crash.

    And, after a “rage party” who cleans up the mess? It seems to me, that you’d need a fork lift rather than a broom. And, I’m sure the place looks at least as bad as a teenager’s room.

    I don’t understand what makes people want to break things when they are upset. I’d just as soon cough up some humor to ease the situation. For instance, I’ve been waiting for two years, and a few shifts in construction dates, to move into Hacienda at the Canyon, a senior residence —being built across the street from my house.

    By now, I have downsized and packed about all I can without a moving date. My patience is wearing a bit thin, because I can’t order my second bedroom wall bed until I know my move-in date.

    So, when Steve, the cheerful young man, who is in charge of moving all the residents into the apartments, said to me, “You do realize that when you leave the apartment, if the new tenants don’t want the wall bed, you will have to pay to have it removed,” I could have gotten my ax and chased him around the room, but instead I said,”Steve! I will, with my dying breath, as I leave this Earth, sit up, and shout out, ‘Steve, tell my kids to remove the freaking wall bed!”

    Esther Blumenfeld, (Moving On!)

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