Twelve, to Bill: “I’ve never had time for the luxury of outrage.”
Babes. Your tenth self existed in a state of outrage. I’m fairly sure that by the end, there was more outrage in his veins than there was blood.
Your ninth self spent every day trying to get over it. Your eleventh self spent half his energy trying to hide it, desperately trying to escape it.
Babe your next self? She will marinate in it. Simmer in it like a pot on a stove, ready to boil over. You will invent a fourteenth self that is a copy of your tenth because you are so angry, so outraged, that it has burnt through your very soul. It is killing you.
Your fifteenth- eighteenth? Twentieth? You don’t even know anymore- self will see that outrage halved. Not the power of it, but the volume. The duration. For the first time in eons, it will recede to a level you may have the time to manage. To use.
Maybe.
