the parasitic review.

an entry in the annals of anger.

I’m angry.

I’m angry, and I hate being angry, so I get even more angry when I think about how angry I am. I’m oozing rage and fury—as if my anger is the cheap whiskey emanating from the frat bro who sat behind you in your Friday morning English 101 class. It’s stinky and stale and distracting. Except unlike a hungover frat bro, I can’t get rid of this anger with a little “hair of the dog”—nor is there enough gatorade and naps to rid me of this feeling.

While it might be self-evident as to why I’m angry (so much of it collective and endemic to us all), it bears repeating. It needs repeating. Over and over, and over and over again. We scream, until the anger is out, “I’m angry because…”, “I’m angry at…”, “I am angry, so…”, etc. I keep coming back to this year being the Year of the Snake, REMEMBER?? Maybe part of the shedding should be verbal—shedding the feelings via syllables. Shedding our shit by articulating, I. AM. F*CKING. ANGRY.

I’m angry at ALL republicans, and Trump supporters, of course. I’m also angry at democrats, for obvious reasons. I’m angry at those of us who pay too much attention, those who pay no attention, and those who think they pay attention but definitely don’t. I’m angry at myself for myriad of conflicting reasons, most of which simply prove I’m human—why do I care so much about this, why am I so apathetic about that, why can’t people understand real empathy, why do I have to deal with the fall out of other people’s emotional infancy, etc. etc. for all of time.

I’m angry at Gen Z, Boomers, my fellow Millennials. Honestly, I’m angry at all generations. I’m angry when someone doesn’t acknowledge my handsome and perfect dogs. I’m angry when people talk to me without looking me in the eye. I’m angry at my coworkers who have the audacity to look confused when I respond to their “how are you?” questions with some version of “CONSIDERING THE STATE OF THE WORLD, SHARON, I’M FINE.”

I don’t photograph angry but this is annoyance, and that’s close enough for today.

I’m angry at the stars for making this month’s astrological makeup feel like I’m wearing a dress of sandpaper on sunburned skin. I’m angry that I started my period this week (in this economy?!). I’m angry that my dog has a parasite. (Ugh, yes, even with all the atrocities of the world, my dog has a PARASITE!?)

Not all of these triggers are rational—OF COURSE—on any normal day of any normal year, perhaps it would be easy to replace “angry” with “annoyed.” But, not today. Not this year. And, regardless, we can’t expect rational responses from ourselves all the time.

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After a week of all of this anger, it seemed only fitting that our regularly scheduled programming would be interrupted by a string of vet visits, poo inspections, and pitiful dog snuggles. The parasite diagnosis wasn’t ideal, but it is highly treatable, so we’ll take it. Nik has the type of dog-owner anxiety where once he receives a “your dog has a parasite” diagnosis, he immediately starts googling what this particular parasite looks like under a microscope. If you want to sleep at night, don’t tumble down this ill-advised rabbit hole.

I’m not sure my coping mechanism is great either, but it tracks. In an almost Buddy-the-Elf childlike trance, I thought, Isn’t the word parasite a fascinating word to say? Pah-arah-ssssiTe. The percussive nature at the beginning and the end of the word feel aggressive in my mouth. I like it, if I don’t think too much about the word itself. But then I do, and then I do the thing I always do……………

The etymology of the word is quite interesting. Its Greek origins (because of course it has Greek origins) might suggest the word would have an elegant evolution. A word fit for a refined dining experience. Yet, the modern use of “parasite” brings forth a gross image, including my dog’s violent diarrhea—an organism living in, on, or with another organism in order to obtain nutrients, grow, or multiply often in a state that directly or indirectly harms the host. To eat at another’s table doesn’t have such a repugnant connotation.

For me, “parasite” holds an etymological and literary punch. Like the brilliant and unsettling South Korean film, aptly titled Parasite, or one of my favorite Gwyneth Paltrow films from the 90s, The Talented Mr. Ripley. Or, any vampire film or book, and there are so many—Interview with A Vampire, Carmilla, Dracula, etc. There are campy versions, dark and twisty versions, comedic versions.

Today, though, I’m fired up about the metaphor opportunities for our contemporary American reality:

Billionaires? Parasites.

GOP Senators? Parasites.

Evangelicals? Parasites.

All living off of the public—the vulnerable, the gullible, the uninformed, the angry—in a way that is multiplying and harming their hosts.

And what about my parasitic anger? What am I doing with it?

Anger won’t give us clean lines. Anger won’t arrange itself in a way that is logical, or orderly. It’s not convenient, or necessarily productive, or elegant. Expressed productively perhaps it can be these things…maybe? The elegant, more mature sister to anger is…outrage? Wrath? A thirst for revenge? In my body currently, the most productive version of my anger looks alot like that shiny black tar substance (parasite?) named Hexxus in Ferngully. You know the character? Voiced by the one and only Tim Curry—what a villain! My Hexxus of anger is singing its goopy way through my system.

Another version is more aptly compared to that parasite in my puppy’s 50 lb frame. Only perceptible by the nasty symptoms spewing from every orifice. As I wrote the previous sentence, I feel the need to apologize, and almost wrote one for the disgusting imagery, but what is there to apologize for? Accurately conveying reality? Accurately depicting what being human in the U.S. right now feels like? Moments of discomfort followed by brief exhausted relief. Temporary reprieve merely giving way to comparison of the immediate past, its effects still singeing your nose, signifying something is really wrong.

Is there even a healthy way to process this anger—this emotional parasite? What is our metaphorical survival pack? Gatorade and an antibiotic for your emotional processor? Meditation prescribed as some emotional probiotic preventative? Do I sanitize the anger?

I ask myself this daily—hourly, some days—and never have a consistent answer. If there is some universal answer, I certainly don’t have it this week.

Some days I have perfect answers—

10/10 would recommend sending meandering voice notes to friends on a Monday night about how Bad Bunny reminds you of an ex-boyfriend.

10/10 would recommend wandering a vintage mall with friends in search of treasures(!) for everyone (!!).

10/10 would recommend calling your representatives to voice your frustrations, and then go watch anything AOC has to say.

10/10 would recommend energizing the witchiest of friends about a blood moon eclipse in Virgo.

10/10 would recommend re-watching old Eras Tour footage on your iCloud, just to feel an echo of the adrenaline rush for the surprise songs.

10/10 would recommend reading a book you loved in college (Mrs. Dalloway or Pride & Prejudice! Take your pick!).

But today? There is no perfect answer, because republicans. And boomers. And people ignoring my dog. And awkward people. And coworkers. And, MY DOG HAS A PARASITE. And, my anger being parasitic.

Tomorrow, or the next day, maybe we’ll find a way to rid the system. To eat at another’s table with this anger, instead of harming the host. To be clear, my personal brand of anger is devoid of violence—I am a woman after all. My anger is channeled into making art, singing The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived on repeat, power walking my dogs in the rain. But none of these things change the anger—they merely titrate it to a more potent potion. A potion that tints everything a certain shade of red.

I’ve spent the last week and a half talking about this Diarrhea Diva’s bowel movements.