I feel a black spell coming on.
You know: that permascowl etched in granite chisels its way into your face, brows finding their own gravity on the order of eight Gs, and the urge to say “BULLSHIT!” when someone tells you to have a good day becomes a very real problem with eating those syllables back, grinding them with your teeth until they turn to grit and spitting them out, hoping they are merely grunts and not the real word you want to shout at the top of your lungs like a howler monkey.
Yeah. I’m coming perilously close to that point today.
I couldn’t quite tell you what the root cause is. Maybe it’s being a father — I hear those kinds of things happen. Where normally kind and generous (okay, the bullshit factor is pegging out the needle), mostly almost decent dad turns into a kind of half-smiling Norman Bates as he chops onions to saute for the evening dinner.
“Keep it down.” Chalkboard grinding teeth. “Please?”
It could also be the politics in our country. I want to leave this circus. The fun-house is trite and not very fun. It makes me all stabby. Oh dear. Knives again… I’ll grind my teeth (again?) and move on.
The weather? Well, it’s annoying, but nothing to shout about.
Work? Again, it would only be because I get impostor syndrome every time I get asked to do… well… anything. I went from being overconfident about the brain cells in my noodle back about sixteen years ago to feeling like there is difficulty in accepting 1+1=3. Or is it 2? I forget. In my junior and senior years as a “nontraditional college student”, I went from being the smartest SOB I knew to being the dumbest. So, yeah, I’ve basically felt like an impostor for the past fifteen years. Therefore, work gets on my nerves some days — especially when I strongly suspect my coworker I’m talking with knows I’m an impostor. I get edgy and start looking for pointy… things…
I know it has something to do with lately being unable to find any entertainment for the purposes of escapism. I don’t care for most games (and I’m a “gamer”), I can’t seem to stay focused on reading books of any genre, movies and music seem like rinse-repeat cycles of the movies and music that have been playing for the past 20 years. I can’t seem to find an outlet. And drinking is off the table, a part of my reality that really cuts… umm…. deep.
Even the cats, normally my best and only friends, have gotten on my nerves earlier this week when they discovered a way to get into the suspended ceiling in our basement (their weight brought down the roof, hardy har har) and it made me have to reorganize the basement in a major way to eliminate egress because they. would. not. let. it. go. once they discovered there was a whole new world in the space between the basement and the upper floor. To be fair, I’d probably be the same, were I a cat. But still, it made me want to claw my eyes out.
And I’ve apparently been offensive, annoying even the significant other when I make jokes about the recent news story about the cannibals illegally castrating some guy in The South and I cracked about the “natural casing wiener” collection they had in their freezer back home. [No, bratwurst, the victim would insist, I imagined out loud]. Someone in the family threatened to do some of their own castration if I kept up the sick jokes, which didn’t improve my mood. It made me feel like a real dick.
It could be this idiotic insistence that we return the kids to school just as our country’s daily Covid numbers are breaking records. It certainly doesn’t help. Nor does it help when I follow instructions on a local government web page about posted Covid numbers that explicitly says I can have the data in another form, only to get a response that tells me that it isn’t possible to provide me with the data. Bureaucracy makes me want to cut through red tape and slap someone for being unhelpful. I just wanted to do that stats thing so I could check how the numbers provided to us are being represented.
Oh, gee. Will you look at the time? It’s the daily get the newly minted teen to go to bed so she can be rested for aikido early tomorrow morning. That should only add to my mood. Stupendous.
I probably should put the kitchen knife away before I do that, doncha think?