In my middle-aged fugue, someone does me harm.

Something uncorporeal is using me as its own private latrine for its dysenteric ways. Somebody without a telephone number or gonads that I can unleash my fury upon. Someone without a garden that I can crap on or windows I can break.

I am permanently drenched in fourtysomething objectless resentments and grudges. I want to kick out at something and find my mark without falling flat on my face.