mahiwaga

I have been cursed with two virulent pathologies that plague me to this day. One is the perverse belief that all emotion is not meant to be expressed ad lib. Passion should be channeled, in controlled burns, outside the confines of civilization. The other is the bizarre idea that if someone is abusing me, I should not abuse them back, because after all, I am much better than they are.

I've noted this before, way in my adolescence. I have a superiority complex that makes me feel inferior.

So here I am taking shit that I don't deserve and keeping my mouth shut.

My pathology runs so deep that I can't even enjoy fantasizing about killing my tormenters. Deep down inside I realize that I won't feel any better plunging a sharp object into my enemy's chest. All vengeance is fleeting, and the accomplishment of such will therefore be joyless and not worth undertaking. Or, to put it less convolutedly, my time is better spent in other ways instead of dealing with this bullshit.

Of course, as is predictable, my voluntary repression sometimes leads to violent and perhaps even psychotic acts. I recognize that these unhealthy behaviors essentially turn me into a ticking time bomb.

In fact, I can look back upon my most recent regrets and find that they were all precipitated by taking too much shit stolidly and then losing it and going nuts in the end.

This path leads to the insane asylum, or to prison. One of these days I'm just going to go for some poor bastard's jugular, and God only knows what sort of mess that'll land me.

So I am currently busy getting myself drunk. I don't know why, I just can't think of anything better to do. I have nearly finished an entire bottle of Pinot Noir by myself. Ah, Pinot Noir.

I find it disturbing that two women have noticed that the character Miles from the movie Sideways reminds them of me. To put it tersely, I suppose they can recognize the patheticness and desperation. On a somewhat related note, two different women have also told me that I remind them of Sidney Carton, the sad, pothetic creature from A Tale of Two Cities. I think I like that comparison a tad better. Carton is, in fact, a loser who eventually decides to commit suicide in a convoluted manner—obsessed with a woman whom he never had chance with. (The whole A+E situation springs to mind. I would likely put my head on the chopping block for her happiness, but I'm not in a rush to test that hypothesis out.)

But what intrigues me about Carton is the idea of squandered potential. Like I wonder if I should've already won a Nobel Prize if I didn't have to deal with my perverse psychological nature. Who knows what sorts of triumphs I would've accomplished with my brain if I hadn't been mired for all these years in major depressive disorder?

A part of me is wondering if I think too highly of my intellectual capabilities.

So I'm pretty blasted on some cheap-ass Pinot Noir. I can barely see straight. I should come into work drunk, or at least hung-over. My ass-hat supervisor will just have to deal.

In some ways, I am careening off the edge of sanity.

I wasn't the only one alone in the restaurant that evening. Another gentleman who looked quite inebriated sat across from me, looking harried and upset. Me at a later stage of illness, perhaps, if I let this kind of thing spiral out of control. Right now it is in its subacute phase. The EKG looks abnormal, but my vital signs are still stable.

I drove randomly to Coronado today. Naturally, the place I wanted to eat at was closed. So I wandered around the nearby bookstore, checking out a cute girl out of the corner of my eye.

After that, I jetted back to Mission Valley and got something to eat. And drink.

As far as consequences go, I am at that point where my answer to everything is "I don't care."

I am not exactly at the apex of my mental health.

So I threw down $100 at the Borders, searching for enlightenment between the lines. It continues to elude me, of course.

I think maybe that I've stopped making sense a long time ago.

Or perhaps I've never made any sense.

If I can only manage to hold my shit together for another three days. Now that's a big "if."

Fuck.