There Are No Prizes for Anger

The warehouse was bustling, the air filled with the hum of machinery and the beeping of forklifts. Amidst the chaos, my good friend Macario and me, worked side by side on a delivery gig. As we were waiting for our trucks to be loaded, Macario's words cut through the noise, revealing a profound truth about the nature of anger.

"If there was some prize," Macario said, his eyes twinkling with wisdom, "or if you won something by being angry, then bring it on! I'd be angry all day, every day." His words, spoken with a hint of irony, sparked a moment of clarity in the middle of our labor.

He said that because we couldn't help but notice the forklift drivers around us, their faces etched with permanent frowns, their movements brusque and impatient. These men wore their anger like a badge of honor, as if their discontent somehow elevated them above their work. But what did their anger truly accomplish?