 Good God, y’all, I cannot believe it’s been a year since I last posted on my blog. The lull was initially unintentional — a result of my energy being focused on other projects and priorities. To my few but mighty readers, my apologies for leaving this space unattended for so long.
At the beginning of March, I was all set to regale you with news about some personal and professional milestones: My eight-year anniversary as a thriving entrepreneur and freelance media consultant. An exciting and long-awaited home improvement project. A new, super fun gig in the arts. Plus, y’know, the most important announcement of them all — I cut off all my hair and dyed it platinum. Then COVID hit.
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 I have an ongoing, perverse fascination with rage and violence. The motivation, the dynamics, the deeds. I’ve always been interested in what drives some people toward extreme aggression, but my curiosity has been intensified recently by the media — both real-life events in the news and fiction.
I am fortunate to never have been the victim of physical violence. Not really. Once, a long-term boyfriend 20 years ago grabbed me by the collarbone during a heated argument and left a bruise, but if I am being honest, he was just protecting himself from a rabid girlfriend. We were so broken by that point, neither of us could see straight. Our fights about infidelity and betrayal (on both sides) had escalated to the point of absurdity. Our fear of letting go had not yet overridden the pain of staying in the relationship. Our love had morphed into loathing. That day, in a gas station parking lot, I was belligerent and completely off the chain. I don’t remember what I said, but I’ll never forget the moment I went too far. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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