Anger = Passion, really?

I have these wonderful conversations with my friends at work – yes, we have thrown caution to the wind and dropped the c-word (colleague) and opted for the powerful f-word (friend) despite much not to subtle protest. Anyway, we have these wonderful, crazy and often enlightening conversations about everything under the sun often at 7:30 in the morning because we are those annoying over-achievers who get to work an hour and a half to two hours earlier.

 

So, today the question of whether anger can and should be equated with passion came up. There seems to be this warped perception that if your love interest, boyfriend, girlfriend – or the newly inducted term of affection ‘ho’ courtesy of Jeh-rome-ay – screams and shouts at you while fighting then they are passionate and really care and the inverse thereof.

 

Take Ronnie and Sammy from Jersey Shore. A lot of us watched that show less for the flashes of Snooki and Dina’s “kooka” and more for the love-hate relationship that Ronnie and Sammy have/had (never sure about those two) and the explosive expression thereof.

 

Let’s flashback to Season 3, episode something or other when Ronnie and Sam had the hugest fight where she was hanging on a bed like a spider monkey as Ron was trying to throw the bed (and her) out accompanied with banging doors and skin-crawling insults. Like, WTF?

Maybe I’m behind the times, but I don’t believe that that kind of behavior and fighting is passionate and sexy in any way. I don’t think anger should at all be a measure for passion or sexual prowess and least of all love.

 

The idea that if I choose not to scream and shout at you ever – let alone in public – is some sort of an indicator of being “dead inside” or cold and unfeeling is crap. What happened to sitting down and telling you rationally that I don’t like something you’ve done? When did my choosing not to throw plates and chairs when we fight make me less interesting and less wanted?

 

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Or better yet, when did passion in love-making or passion regarding my hopes, dreams and future for myself and for us become less important than the “passion” apparently seen and felt when you’ve got a glass hurtling towards your face?

 

I don’t know, maybe I’m that old-school fuddy duddy (yes, I’m in my twenties and I used that phrase – dramatic effect, roll with it) who believes that there’s a time, place and appropriate response for everything. And that some things should be taken at face value for what they are. Anger is anger. Anger is neither passion nor love as far as I’m concerned.

 

I must say, the idea that I may need to get a cochlear implant from being profoundly deaf after someone’s expression of passion for/toward me is not-so-hot-so, but hey, that’s just me, the one who used ‘fuddy duddy’ in this century *shrugs*

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