I ran across something last week that totally burned my britches, and I had a blog post all written up, venting my frustration. And now, I am so grateful for the "schedule" button that allowed me to delay the publication of that post, and thereby, change my mind about posting it. How many people out there really want to read someone else's diatribe, after all? [Although, if you're interested in knowing what product I thought was inappropriately marketed to kids, e-mail me and I'll be happy to share...]
Writing is a great way for me to vent, and it has long been so. I've written letters that were never sent, journals that became winter fireplace fodder, and diatribes that didn't get posted. I think I'm basically I pretty good human, emphasis on the human part. But when I get steamed, that energy has to go somewhere, and rather than take it out on all you fine folks, I turn to paper. Blah-blah-blahing in ink has probably saved me from eating a lot of crow over the years.
For my husband, it's a stream of language that would shock most people. In his universe, they're just words - sounds put together by the muscles of your throat - that only convey meaning if you insist on attaching a meaning to them. Almost without fail those words get launched at every thing around him - the hammer, the cabinet door, the uncooperative 4x4 - but not at people. There's the difference. The washing machine doesn't care what he says to it, and he gets it out of his system without hurting anyone's feelings.
I call it a release valve, and it sure does come in handy. Life throws all sorts of stuff our way, and learning how to handle what we get is infinitely more productive (for me) than hoping we don't get any.
I hope you all know where your release button is, too.