Affirmatio (af’-fir-ma’-ti-o): A general figure of emphasis that describes when one states something as though it had been in dispute or in answer to a question, though it has not been.
I had developed this habit of telling people they were wrong when they were clearly right and I knew it. It started with my genius sister Edwina, who was never wrong about anything. She was my twin, so our lives overlapped. In school, our teachers got used to being corrected by her at least once or twice a day. Our poor history teacher resigned after throwing an eraser at Edwina and telling her to shut up. She retaliated by making a dart out of a piece of paper and throwing it at him, hitting him in the forehead where it stuck in. He had to go to the school nurse to have it removed. She told him, another quarter-inch and he would’ve lost his ability to speak. But, Edwina wasn’t punished. Our Principal said it was justified as self defense—Edwina was under attack. Besides, her “Folded Rocket” won the “Paper Projectile Prize” at the annual “Flying Stationary” convention at Ft. Barge, the local Army base. It was determined her “Folded Rocket” could penetrate flesh and be lethal if it was properly aimed. The US Army bought all the rights and designated the folding pattern secret. The plan was for soldiers to carry innocent-looking pieces of paper that they could make into “Folded Rockets” if they were captured. It was discovered also that the “Rockets” could double as daggers for close-in combat, making them even more valuable to the military. Edwina was paid $1,000.000 for her invention. She was only ten. When she turned 18, she started a factory making origami, paper snowflake, and paper airplane kits. The business “Fold, Cut, and Create” is a raging success. She has so much money she could afford to hire me, her I’ll-tempered twin brother.
No matter what she says to me, I contest it. She might say to me “We need to order more paper.” I might say “Why?” or “What do you mean?” or “We need more paper?” I like to slow her down, and frustrate her if I can. She can’t fire me or our mother would disown her. I know I’m mentally disturbed, but I revel in it and can see no reason to seek help. And also, my sister’s not the only one I harass. It’s everybody! I try to make life difficult for at least one person every day. Sometimes my target will hit me. I love it when I get a salesperson mad and they get violent or swear at me. Then, I insist they be fired on the spot. Every once in a while it works and I relish the moment for two or three days.
My wife left me after two weeks of marriage. I live alone. I spend my evenings “grinding axes” and looking forward to the next day’s alienations. Someday, maybe I’ll snap out of this bizarre way of being.
Until then, why the hell do you care, you pitiful pity leech?
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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