Emotional being (or being emotional)

No one starts out exactly where they finish in a life.
Blank slate. Clay for molding and all that.
We're hard-wired at the factory with the basics - then it is up to experience and upbringing to fill in the gaps.
I am an emotional being. Impassioned.
I wear my emotions out.
(Play poker with me; I have no “poker face.”)
And it is difficult to live in a society that says “Keep things in check, be politically correct” when you know damn well it is counter to how you were hard-wired.
“You like pissing people off,” first sister said recently.
But I don’t. I never intend to blaze roughshod over the landscape. It just happened that way.
From my earliest days. I was 4 when we had this babysitter from hell who decided that no child in her care would eat with his left (natural) hand. She tied my left arm to my body – and said I was to sit at the table and eat everything on my plate with my right hand.
“We’re going to be here awhile,” I said.
And I sat there until my mother called to check in, where I was untied – and the babysitter was sent packing.
Fight for what is right. Stand up. Speak up. Speak out.
It is how I have chosen to live my life.
It’ll get you into trouble. I know.

When I was 26 I was editor of a small newspaper. The economy was lousy and the publisher’s house was for sale. I went to the general manager and asked if everything was OK. I specifically asked – and felt I deserved a straight answer – to the question, “Was my job in jeopardy?”
“Naw,” he said. “Go ahead and get that sports car you were thinking about. Reward yourself.”
I managed to get most of my people out to other jobs, burning every marker I had with every friend in the business.
But there I was, two weeks later, back in the GM’s office, where I was being laid off. And with no job in sight.
“Is there anything you’d like to say?” he asked.
“I’m going to piss on your grave.”
“Excuse me?”
“For the rest of my life, I am going to scan the obituaries and when I see yours, I’m coming back here and I’m going to piss on your grave.”
OK, not the most smooth transitions I’ve ever made.
Of course, now I’m stuck doing it. A promise is a promise.

Wearing your emotions out gets tiring. It gets confusing.
I have an evaluation from work that basically asks that I come to work happy. Every fucking day.
“You are the moral compass of (company),” it states. “Others look to you to see how to proceed with the day. You wear your heart on your sleeve and when you are in a bad mood, everybody knows it. It is essential that you carry yourself in a manner where your emotions buoy this newsroom.”
Try living up to that. I tried to have it taken out, but it stayed. And so I keep it as a reminder.
Of a power force?
No. Just to be aware of what raw emotions can do.

As I have aged, I have mellowed. And sometimes, my brain actually stops my mouth from spouting what my brain actually dreamed up to say.
And I have learned a few valuable lessons along the way.
(Old dog, new tricks kinda thing.)
Sometimes, it is best not to say anything at all.
Add a sly little smile, too.
Makes people plenty nervous.