MORE OF LESS

I felt the urge again today, but I chose to wallow in it, saturating myself with the overpowering craving for bloodlust; the freeform frenzied longing to eradicate a human life-- to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze like a big snake; to dig my thumbs in deep, aim them toward his vertebrae, and shove a little further, until I could hear and feel that telltale crunching sound.
I can't remember being so completely full of searing blind anger, and I don't know what set it off. I thought I was going to burst if I couldn't get it out.
I wanted to break something of value, something that couldn't be swept under the rug or forgiven. Maybe it was the heat, standing in lines, the roar of traffic, the constant noise. The choking fumes. The buildings, which tower over me like a concrete Venus flytrap; swallowing the sun, pressing in on me and leaving me nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, nowhere to hide. Maybe it was lies he told, boldface and thinly veiled. Maybe it was his smell, or the way he chewed his food. Maybe I just found him irritating.
I wanted to run him over with my body, hard charge him right into the fucking ground, sit on his chest and grip his hair in one hand while I just punched, and punched and punched and punched some more, his blood spattering my eyes, my face. I imagined that I would lick my lips and blink the blood from my eyes, but I did not imagine stopping. I'd keep his head just an inch from the pavement, and let blow after blow fly free, his head bouncing off the ground. I'd do it again and again because it would feel good and because I could.
My anger would grow exponentially, propelling me faster and harder, fueling the act itself like a perpetual motion machine stuck on demo mode. The truth would come out in the long, red, viscous pool gathering with the trash in the gutter; he's picking up the tab for all of it, every wound, every scar, downloaded onto this slab of meat now helpless before me. Then I would take out my knife and carve the words "APOLOGY ACCEPTED" across his forehead--
And, just like that, the wave breaks. Between short sudden gasps for air, my teeth unlock, my fists unclench, and I realize that I have been talking out loud again, mumbling under my breath. Everyone on the bus is silent, staring straight ahead, deliberately avoiding my gaze like frightened animals in a small, westbound cage. I feel sick to my stomach.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I would never do anything like that,...
Later, I'm minding my business browsing paperback novels in the corner store, when suddenly a mood swing attacks me from behind. I never saw it coming,.. it blindsided me.
I tried to fight it off, but it grabbed me from behind, riding my shoulders with its legs entwined in my own, fingers in my eyes, covering my face with filthy hands. I could smell what it had for lunch. We both went down, and I tried to crawl away. I struggled and fought, but it sat on my chest, forced my mouth open with its powerful phantom hands, and breathed its way into my lungs.
Now I'm angry again for no fucking logical reason. Pissed off and feeling caged, wanting to throw things, secretly hoping someone will kick my ass, so I can feel alive, so I will have something to talk about.
I wonder if there might be medication for this.
I don't really know if I'd want it.