I was in Boojum in Galway tonight, in the line to pay for my food, when some drunk asshole grabbed me by the shoulders, and said “Alan, can you come over here so you can meet my friends.”
I shoved him away from me, told him loudly and firmly to fuck off, and turned back to pay for my food. It is, literally, the closest I’ve come to losing my temper since a different drunk asshole grabbed my beard and called me Alana down on the Headford Road during Race Week in 2013-and in that instance, I snapped and beat the shit out of him. About two seconds later my rage was replaced with shame for becoming a public spectacle-I did something noteworthy! And not in a good way!-and a different anger at the asshole for making me a spectacle. And, finally, when I had slunk off to 091 Labs to eat my food, a different shame for the fact that I almost lost my temper.
Right or wrong, I feel that someone gets hurt when I lash out. I am incandescently furious at that drunk asshole for soiling me, touching me, and putting me into the kind of circumstances I avoid like the plague.
Mark would never nefariously steal another person’s photograph. Never ever.
I am completely consumed with the blackest of hatred for Mariah. I can’t say it has destroyed me; I already am. Every thought is about how I want her to die, how I want to die, and want to see the look on her face when she hears about it. I obsess over the theft of my children. What are they doing today? How is Caira doing in school? What kind of boy is my son growing into under that white trash witch’s fat hand? I want my children back. I don’t; I may as well start fresh somewhere else, with someone who isn’t damaged. But no, I have utterly failed at every turn when it comes to children. Self-fulfilling prophecy: I am become my father’s son in heart as well as flesh.
And at the same time I could care less about anything in my life. Bills, college, who cares? I get up to eat, I eat, I go back to bed, I sleep. Repeat for six months. I am tied the sting of failure: I invest effort in something, and I fail, so why should I bother to try again? I’m just going to get more hurt. I hate myself for hating Mariah, because I fully understand the circumstances that led to this, and that I wrought it on myself. Consider how Billy and I have treated her (answer: like shit) when she got pregnant. Then she hard Garrett, I opposed her at every turn, and left. We make amends, she comes across to Ireland, and I repeat all of my mistakes yet again. I was an unmitigated asshole to my wife and the mother of my children.. I drove her to the most extreme of measures. That’s pretty bad.
I wallow in apathy and self-disgust. I kill everyone I can in a virtual world, and unleash tirades of abuse on those I can’t. Every single day I log into World of Warcraft, join a battleground, and spit murderous abuse at strangers, while I fantasize about dying. Hanging isn’t a bad way to go if you do it right. You lose consciousness in less than ten seconds, and you surf a wave of euphoria all the way out. Actually, it’s a pretty good death as far as ignoble ends go. Painless, and almost instant.
I feel completely powerless to change any aspect of my life. My room is warm, dark, and my bed cosy. My doctor and therapist are worthless. My doctor refers me back to my therapist, and my therapist just maddeningly ask “What do you think you need for release?” If I knew, then my arse wouldn’t be planted in the musty chair opposite you. I thought a letter to Mariah where I apologized (genuinely) and took responsibility for my actions would help. Holli has given me to understand that the bitch just tore it up and threw the shreds in the bin. Reasonably, she gave me every chance, time and again; stubbornly, time and again I came back with the same grovelling words; stupidly, time and again she believed me.
At the end of the day I am miserable, and hateful, and refuse to do anything to change my life.
The next time I need to calculate compound interest daily, I should probably check my sample numbers with a *daily* compound interest calculator. Before, you know, I spend four hours writing a check-check-checker (check3) and proverbially pulling my hair out.
Turns out that Google Docs and several other online calculators calculate it yearly.
It’s been an “under the weather” couple of weeks, both emotionally and physically; I’ve had some kind of alien-spawned sinus infection steadily converting my cranium’s contents into alien-spawned-sinus-infection biomass. My cat, Killer, has done her best to aggravate my allergies. It’s a genuine, bona-fide cross-species conspiracy to fucking kill me. I’ve been a bit of a shit to my immediate family, my less-than-immediate-family, my friends and complete strangers in the midst of this. We fought (read: I picked fights) over attitudes and circumstances that will never, ever change, no matter your reasoning, passion, logic or facts. In any clash with the Grealishes, you discover what happen when the Immovable Object meets the Unstoppable Force. It’s like…Dwarves. Angry Dwarves. Cries of, “Baruk khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu!” rip the air of our kitchen. Axe is beaten against shield. Battle lines are drawn. The light turns dim, smoky. And then, war.
What pulled me back from the hypothetical brink was a fourfold reminder that I am not my dad, that there are people who love me, that I always have choices, and that we will always have more lolcats. Apologies were given, and accepted. Decisions were made. I’m finally moving back out of here and into a place of my own, owing to support from a very unexpected quarter.