rage dichotomy

when i was a teenager one of the seniors at my high school, a kid named Castigliano, punched me in the face twice and shoved me into a swimming pool for 'foul-mouthing his girl' (why do we never forget these things?). i had no idea what he was talking about. i'd had maybe 5 beers and was just standing there, at the edge of the oval pool, zit-faced, nonplussed and oblivious. that's when Castigliano clocked me. springing into action, before the 2nd hit, i clenched my fist. i was gonna give him the goods for real, but i...ah...didn't have the balls. my arm froze. ok, he was bigger, stronger and nastier than i was, but the picture in my head of my fist slamming into his pretty jaw disarmed me. i couldn't hurt him, or was afraid to, or so i told myself, or, or, or. my friends yanked me out of the chlorine, dabbed at the cut on my face and consoled me, but i never got over it. i whimped out, a total wuss. this confuses me today because i'm such a sicko badass steroidal motherfucker on the turnpike. any asshole hugging the bumper of my old lady' Grand Am and i hang in there like a mule, 20 mph over the limit, a wall of traffic in the right lane, a stream of cars in mine and this bastard can go fuck himself. i revel in the phantom violence. i will not give one bloody inch. when at long last there's an opening on the right for me to scoot into and let the cunt pass, i ignore it. i even slow down a bit just to piss him off, hit the gas and then, lurching ahead, smile my most vindictive smile. this fucking fuck will not pass my fucking gay-assed red car, no way, no how! i play chicken with 16-wheelers, six pack pick-up trucks and Mercedes elitists. this is a silly, lethal contest of wills that i choose to game, cool in my cocoon, white knuckles on the wheel, on fire with clenched-jawed glee. i become the total opposite of the girly boy at the pool who was too chickenshit to fight back.