Anger, healing and competitive sports. Plus television.

Anger is a process and healing comes in layers.

One of the greatest gifts CRR left with his visit is a new perspective on anger. Seven years ago, we were furious with one another. So furious, one would storm out of the room if the other entered. We warned other people about one another. We did the fucktarded things early 20-somethings do when spurned: gossip, bitch, gossip, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch. (Except...it doesn't end with your early 20's...as it turns out...) But seven years later, CRR flew 3,000 miles just to hang out for the weekend. And during the visit, I knew I'd been very, very angry about something at one time. But those reasons seem so pointless that even if I weren't masking CRR's identity and our story, I wouldn't even know how to explain why I was so pissed.

So, what's the point in getting angry about anything?

Co-workers jerk us around. But it's our job to put up with them. Taking it personally is just going to run up your bar tab at happy hour. The MTA sucks. It just does. And sometimes, we get stuck underground, crammed against a bunch of strangers--some of them smelly. A few of them, rude. All of them just as unhappy to be stuck in there as we. Getting angry at the MTA doesn't make us get anywhere faster, or improve their overall service. What's the use in getting mad at a subway system? It's further proof as to why the Goddess invented the I-Pod. I-Pods save the day in a bad commute.

But sometimes, even our best perspective makes us still want to chuck a stiletto heel into a skull. Or leave a pentacle-ring bruise on a cheekbone. It may have been five months since I had my heart broken and through therapy, friends and sweet, sweet men, I'm doing pretty damn well. Occasionally, however, I'll be going along my merry way; doing my dishes, petting my cats, working on a blog post or something and I'll suddenly look up and scream "DOUCHEBAAAAAAAAAAG!!!"

"Huh," I then say to myself. "I guess I'm still kinda mad."

Tonight, after a few of these angry-Torrets episodes, I went into meditation. "Come on, you Guys," I said as I descended down the spiral staircase to The River. "Why am I still so fucking angry?"

Brid came to me looking like the Alanis Morrisette character in "Weeds." Pan came as the Silas character.

"Why do you look like Alanis Morrisette?" I asked Brid.

"I don't," She said. "I look like a doctor."

It was true. Alanis Morrisette's character in "Weeds" is an OBGYN. Brid was dressed in the white coat and everything. It made sense as one of Brid's traditional roles is that of midwife. And while I may not be having a baby right now, clearly, I'm birthing something that pisses and cries (my anger), and in Her doctor role, She was going to heal me. Pan in Silas-garb made sense: the older brother character who defends those he loves--while being extraordinarily sexy with a mild blip on the Gay-dar. We made out.

Brid pointed at the moon. "Notice how it changes? Its shape cycles in and out. You can't blame it for its nature. It will pass and change and come back."

I guess this means I have to wait it out. Anger will change. Anger will diminish. Anger will indeed grow back, so I guess this means the most dangerous and futile thing to do would be do cling to the anger or force it away. Can't do it for the moon. Can't do it for our hearts. We just have to trust the process and let time do its job. Even when we wish it would hurry up and do its job a little fucking faster.

On that note, I also advise watching basketball. Watching sports is important. When you get into a game, you don't think about anything else. It's the most entertaining form of cathartic meditation out there. Tonight, the Blazers beat the Spurs.