“That’s why all the aliens were always dropping in, because Kirk was the only one that had a big screen.”

UFO

I know what’s wrong with me.  I don’t think right.  I have an irreconcilable difference in processing.  It seems like a small glitch, but the consequences are unbearable.  I don’t believe in hurting back.  I doubt I’m the only one with this flaw, but I’m sure it’s not a question others would answer.  (I could write a book on things not to ask.)  I’ve tried several times to understand people who murderously lash out at others after being hurt by them.  I avoid the news, but stories of killers who take out ever-increasing numbers of humans in rampages often seep in any way.

I reach the same conclusion each time.  These killers are hurting back as hard as they can.  It’s illogical, sloppy futility, but it’s far from unusual based on my observations of people.  The only difference seems to be the use of extreme violence.  Most hurt back in far more subtle ways.  They opt for a sneakier, socially acceptable manner:  Psychological warfare.

The results don’t vary (from my perspective.)  The hurt people continue hurting because harming others doesn’t heal their hurt; it only increases that of their target.  Some may convince themselves they feel better after seeking revenge, but I don’t buy it.  Self-deception is a sad religion.  I’m an unbeliever.  Worse, lashing out at others for hurting me increases my pain. It’s something I learned as a young child.

I’ve lived decades beyond that lesson, so this vindictive thought process is practically imperceptible now. But I’m occasionally aware of the petty vengeance going on around me. It sometimes amuses me due to its creativity, but I usually ignore it. I observed quite a bit when I used Twitter. It fascinated me for a brief time. The passive aggressiveness was stunning.  I quickly recognized the depth of my unsophistication.  It amplified my sense of alienation from humanity.  I don’t think this way, and it makes me incompatible.

I feel almost like a perpetually deserving victim.  I won’t hit back, which seems to be sufficient justification for being punched in the first place on this planet.  E.T. phone home, please.

 

“Let’s go, Pop. White belt, white pants, white shoes, get in the back.”

What you gonna do?

Okay.  I had to let go of my rage.  I can’t afford to waste any more energy.  I do apologize for throwing all cops under the bus in my anger, knowing not all of them are racist pricks.  None have ever abused their authority with me (that I know of.)  My fears, although rational, are frustrating because I can’t identify a racist by sight.  Unless they’re wearing a MAGAt uniform or something, that is.  (No hesitation to say that with confidence anymore, dontchaknow.  The bridge pic in front of a youth indoctrination center in my last post did it.)

I decided I’m not going to respond to the letter.  If the police show up, come what may.  I’m not thick enough to answer the door.  I’m not likely to forget I’m black.  😂🤣  Yep.  I’m bitter.  I think it’s because being hated doesn’t grant me the ability to hate back.  Heather was a racist by age seven.  I don’t think it’s fair I can’t even fake it.  We had the same freaking environment and were only 13 months apart.  This can’t be my planet.

I told M. to give me a week before we talk about him coming back.  You know why so many veterans succeed at committing suicide?  It’s because we’re trained to only attempt that which we’re sure to acomplish.  We instinctively include redundancy, and don’t shy away from gruesomely violent methods.  We’re also more likely to own weapons.  Twenty-two veterans will commit suicide today, according to statistics.  (Google it.  I’m cranky.)  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.  You get it.  (I’m being morbid because I’m hurt, offended, and not trying very hard to adult.)

I think the veteran suicide rate is by design.  Mostly because it makes fiscal sense.  If you’ve read more than a few of my posts, you know I analyze the shit out of everything.  Why the hell do you think I joined the Army?  Sure, partly because I was an arrogant, spoiled rotten brat an inch away from rationalizing my way into some white collar crime that wasn’t technically invented yet, and I didn’t truthfully want that easy, easy path in life.  But mostly because I wanted answers to several questions, am impatient, and didn’t understand what fear meant yet.  The shortest distance from spoiled rotten brat to adult was surrendering to Uncle Sam’s ironic call for volunteers.

plastic soldier

Oddly, it had to be either the Army or the Marines.  I did my research.  I didn’t do enough joint operations with Navy or Air Force to narrow down why.  Coast Guard seemed a silly choice for a Dakotan.  I didn’t consider the Marines at all.  I’m pretty confident I would not have lasted another two weeks in boot camp, thankyouverymuch.  (Failing basic is usually because you changed your mind, or you got hurt, in my opinion.)  The only hard part is acting despite fear, staying awake on fire watch, and living with 49 other children experiencing the same trauma.  If you want it enough, you graduate.

I came too close to a meltdown today, so my brain is defragmenting.  I’m amazed I’ve stuck to something resembling a topic this long.  I’m operating on dark humor and cynicism.  (I don’t mind this phase of the process because it mostly amuses me.)  This weekend is ruined, though.  I can tell I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.  I can’t even work on my song because the Muse won’t acknowledge my existence when I’m carrying around negativity for no reason. I already forgave my cat for continuously thwarting my ability to off myself without going through the agonizing mental exercise first.  (I haven’t needed a plan in years.)

Yep, I’m that weird.  I don’t care.  (You wouldn’t either if you were me.)  I forgot to eat today.  +10 for remembering before midnight.  Although, I broke a tooth from grinding my teeth too hard a bit ago.  Thanks, Prozac, you evil, dry-mouth causing bitch.  Even when I’m just recovering from losing my shit, I’m still aware I have an indefinable bond with my healing sisters, (Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, Lorde, etc.)  It’s probably why I’m able to talk shit while my CPU is under such a heavy load.  I’m as strong as I am weird, now.  I bet that scares you.  😂  (No, seriously, I hope not.)  I’m going to go eat before I type something even more regrettable.  Seeya.