SHOT IN THE FACE!!!

You know I can't quit you, baby.

I'm popping into say happy birthday and explain things, then I will probably continue fucking off into the distant future.

Firstly, my account disappeared or something. This wasn't deliberate, not entirely. My plot was to change my password to something I couldn't reproduce (just a random string copy and pasted) and take a break. Instead, changing my password rendered my account to the same status as a just-registered but not-activated newbie account. Therein, it looked like I had disappeared. My plan was to just slip away and take a break but instead whatever happened, happened.

After my last little outburst I spent a weekend sulking and making sad faces. Like The Crow.


BOO HOO HOO

I was being a huge bitch essentially because I got called stupid and was way too mad about it. I festered and stewed and fumed and plotted and raged and sweated and slept, and then I woke up and did it all over again. I've been thinking about killing myself a lot. Not doing it, just letting it happen and the repurcussions therein. How I'd do it (PROBABLY jumping, not gonna lie. If I survived that then I figure I've earned it and I could move the fuck on.

So suicide and death got me thinking life is precious, and god, and the bible. I realized, as I've stated rather specifically, that I am waaaaay too emotionally invested in this joint. But not only that, I'm just emotionally invested. I depend on my emotions to carry me around so I don't have to do much thinking beyond when my next meal is.

When I pick an argument with you (if you are among the list of everyone I've argued with pretend I'm talking directly to you) I'm not really looking for anything tangible, or sensible. I just want to fucking win. I want to be king shit and lord it over everyone even if my turdcastle is a-shambles. Even if I make myself look like a fool, a bit of duke (this is also a poo joke) or even a little queeny. I say the dumbest, or smartest, but most importantly NASTIEST shit that I can. I have an anger problem that stems directly from growing up in a home where my only grasp of power was shitting down my family's neck more than they can shit down mine. Is this an excuse? Fuck no. I'm seeing a counsellor. I have been for awhile. After a few sessions, I had the helpful suggestion of asking her is I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from all the weirdo shit that was my home life.

Her diagnosis? No. I don;t have PTSD. But I do suffer from a Stress/Anxiety problem that not only has tangible roots in my mind but can be all but excised completely. Step one in curing this? Write some letters. Write some letters to my mom, my dad, friends I'm upset with, Pilot (because pilot is always included, but not really he doesn't bother me at all. You're a good guy Pilot, I wish you the BEST) and all kinds of other hoo-hah and suchlike. So I did. I wrote this stream of consciousness no-editing-applied document full of my hate and bile and also a shitload of humility, but mostly bile. I love bile.

This doc will never be finished, because I'll never run out of shit that needs to be drained from my mind but it's an incredible outlet for my frustrations and bitterness. It's a diary that I can scream myself to sleep with.

So the thoughts of jumping off a bridge (and the walks I took scouting for such) changed to thoughts of jumping for joy and those walks turned into generally walking. Walking is amazingly relaxing.

I am not cured. I am not saying my (1-2 weeks maybe?) Vacation from our niche forum has magically made me all better, but I am better, however marginally. I don't feel miserable or anxious or depressed. I feel really good. I feel like lifting weights with my big stinky arms. I feel like going for walks. I feel like trying.

I don't, however, feel like seriously commenting on this pony shit beyond shaking my head disappointedly.