It happened mid-dinner — that sudden, tiny spark of chaos that hits for no reason at all. He was chewing. Just chewing. Peacefully, obliviously, rhythmically. And my brain whispered, what if I just… shoved his plate right off the table?
I could almost see it — the plate flying, gravy splattering, the meatloaf landing in slow motion. His shocked face frozen like a cartoon character mid-sneeze. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted to punctuate the moment. To break the spell of his infuriatingly calm chewing and remind the universe that I, too, exist at this table.
The Confession
He didn’t notice the storm brewing inside me. The game was on, his fork clinking against the plate like a metronome for madness. I pictured the crash, the ceramic shattering into dramatic little pieces, the hush afterward. Then me, instantly remorseful, handing him a paper towel while pretending it was all an accident.
Of course, none of it happened. I just sat there, smiling like a sane person, taking a slow sip of water to drown my inner chaos gremlin. But the fantasy felt so real I swear my hand twitched toward the table’s edge.
That’s the thing about “thought crimes” — they’re not about wanting to do something terrible; they’re about needing an outlet for frustration that’s too small to justify, but too sharp to ignore.
The Reflection
Why does my brain invent these cinematic moments of petty destruction? I think it’s because life gets flat sometimes. Routine smooths out all the edges — same dinners, same conversations, same careful politeness. So my mind throws a tiny tantrum just to prove I’m still alive.
It’s a weird kind of emotional punctuation. Like slamming an exclamation mark in the middle of a sentence that didn’t need one. A private reminder that I have limits, and sometimes those limits look like a flying plate covered in green beans.
And honestly, imagining it is way better than actually doing it. No dishes broken, no awkward clean-up, no explaining to my mother why my relationship ended over mashed potatoes. The daydream is safe chaos. A harmless little jolt of adrenaline that lets me vent without consequences.
The Punchline
When the urge passed, I looked at him — still eating, still blissfully unaware — and I felt both ridiculous and oddly comforted.
The brain is weird. It keeps a backup file of mischief for when life feels too normal.
So no, I didn’t shove his plate. I finished my dinner, laughed at myself, and kept the fantasy stored away for later — like emotional bubble wrap.
Because honestly? Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is imagine the mess and then quietly pass the salt instead.
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