My dear and caring readers, I'm going to warn you in advance that you may have to just smile, nod, and indulge me on this one. To quote veteran Hollywood show runner and writer Ken Levine (who's blog is actually really good if you get a chance to read it), what good is it to have a blog if you can't vent your frustrations every now and again?
Kids, I am not a happy camper. I can't go into the exact reasons for my less than shall we say up with humanity mood at the moment as they are nowhere near anyone else's concern or business unless they're already involved. Sorry but even in the blog universe there are some things, yes even for a writer, that need to remain private and these couple or three case studies in aggregious human fucked-up-itude fall into that category.
You know, I've been at the point over the last few days of being so amped up, pissed off, and just generally redneck country ill that I'm having trouble sleeping, my blood pressure is doing weird things, and no matter how much punishment I dish out to myself at the gym I can't seem to settle down and just chill out. I am well aware of the urge inside me right now. It's that little demon inside me that knows exactly how satisfying it is to just knock the living shit out of something that's bothering me and watch it lay there and bleed quietly in front of me. At the risk of sounding like more of a complete nutbag than usual, I sort of liken that need to smack the shit out of something to Dexter's 'dark passenger' in a way. It's been part of my psyche for as long as I can remember but unlike that particular fruit cake I tend to keep a handle on mine pretty well. I haven't lost total control of that particular little monkey since college with the exception of an occasional instance where there was a bit too much Jack consumed and a bit too much trashed talked and the months immediately following my divorce in 2003. Hey I'm not the most proud of those instances but, all things considered and if you knew my ex-wife, well, I'm not exactly how sure how much of those really should be held against me anyway.
So while I've had some additional time on my hands to stew and brood the last few nights (and by the way, I now get why the good superheroes brood a lot - it really focus the grrr factor) I've started to really try to analyze where all this comes from and why so many people fall victim to it. I wasn't raised in an abusive home by any means. My parents made mistakes like all parents do but I made it to adulthood realitively unscathed in my opinion. I know I figured out early on in my teenaged years that I was a lot bigger than others but I can only think of one real time that I was truly a bully to someone else.
So once again I get left with the question: where does this urge to full on Wookiee beat a couple of particular members of our herd come from? I'm sure I could start asking around but I know the responses I would get: genetics, racial memory, head trauma, psychological disturbance, too much metal, or even maybe my buddy's patented response to what's wrong with me lately... a tumor!
The fact of it all is that as a man nearing forty you would think that I should have the ability to control my brain better than this by now. A friend of mine recommended to me that I should take up meditation again. All I could do is smile and say 'yeah great thanks for the advice.' For more reasons than I will ever tell anyone again I will not go back down that road. Maybe I need to try therapy again, although the last time I tried that ten years ago resulted in my post divorce mini rampage and a string of questionable decisions.
So here we are, back to my attempt at a positive, productive outlet for my frustration and anger. You know you're a writer when you decide to vent your vexations in the generic to your readership in an attempt to keep your blood pressure down to the level where you don't hear your heartbeat in your ears. I'm given to understand that is not a good thing. My wife has explained to me that if it happens again I get to go see the idiots at the hospital who engage in guesswork in white coats and let them explain it to me. (I've also come to understand that the previous statement is actually mature wife-speak for SETTLE DOWN BEAVIS, which computed in my little brain much, much more easily.)
Now before anyone decides to start scheduling the intervention or telling me that there is no use in getting upset about things I can't control, allow me to assure you that I am perfectly aware of all those truisms. This is just how I'm wired. I've never hit a female in my life that wasn't on a sparring mat with me and hitting back, I've never physically punished a child more than a firm swat on the rear for acting up when talking didn't work any more, and I swear that if I had started handing out all the random ass kickings that I've wanted to over the years I would have never had a full time job in my existence.
The fact of it all is that I am just so very sick and fucking tired of adults who refuse to behave like they were raised by anything other than mongrel coyotes. To say I'd like to drag a few folks out behind the wood shed right now and beat them like their daddy should have is an understatement of galactic proportions.
Do I want to go full on Hulk Smash on some jagoff right now?
God yes.
Will I?
No, but for a huge number of reasons that have nothing to do with age, ability, or willingness. The truth of it all is that yielding to an impulse to hand out ass whippins like playing cards would only complicate, exascerbate, and or completely misdirect all of these situations and frankly it's just not worth it in the long haul.
I think when it comes down to it, things that are outside of my control are what drives me the craziest. I've spent a good portion of my life being the guy who fixed problems and when I can't do anything to fix what's glaringly and blazingly glowing white hot with what is in only my opinion the dumb ass bullshit of others, I start seeing red big time.
Thanks for letting me be a little more than usually self indulgent here boys and girls. Yes, I know things will eventually work out for the best as always. Yes, I know people for the most part are inherently good and sometimes just simply lose their way in life. And yes, I do know that as long as people are alive they have the opportunity to correct their mistakes and get on with living a normal life.
Does any of that make me feel any better though?
I'll let you know after I headbutt the side of the house for a few hours later this afternoon.
slow. painful. 'nuff said.
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