On The Pitching of Fits

For those of you following along, you may have noticed that I recently pitched a major fit of pique and suffered the consequences thereof. Foof was magnanimous enough to rescind my banishment and so I'm back to posting longwinded therapeutic essays like the one you're plodding through now.

This little microcosm serves as a place where we interact sometimes as who we would like to be, and not who we actually are. Unfortunately, I've been acting like a dick in most every facet of my life these days, and it was becoming who I actually was. It's not who I would like to be however. Still, I was becoming (became?) that guy and it naturally spilled over here.

I could look for a cause or a smoking gun or whatever that would easily explain how such a swell fella as myself could end up with a first-class ticket on the Asshole Express, but there really isn't one – no substance abuse or awful domestic situation or any of that. Nothing - except laziness. It's just much easier to be an asshole than it is to be nice to people. I don't have to step outside my little ball of self, and I don't have to filter anything I say because hey fuck them they don't matter anyway. Another enabler was that I was good at it. Cutting insults just pop out of my mind fully formed like Athena springing from the head of Zeus, armed and ready for battle. In retrospect, it's a terrible talent to have. Why couldn't I just have a lovely singing voice or some such?

The thing is, when you go all asshole on someone, even the nicest people tend to go all asshole right back at you – and rightfully so. But instead of serving as a wakeup call for me, battle just reinforced my dickishness. I was starting to seek out confrontation for the rush it gave me. Selective memory helped round off inconvenient sharp corners and allowed me to bask in the warm glow of self-righteous indignation. In my wake I was leaving a trail of places where I wasn't welcome anymore, but fuck 'em, who needs them anyway, amirite?

So what does all this self indulgent introspection have to do with me pitching a fit here? It certainly was small potatoes in the grand scheme of things for everyone, but it was the only place where it was laid out in black and white, recorded for posterity. It provided review without rationalization, without the ability to conveniently forget parts that don't fit my narrative. It clearly stated "You, Sir, are a dick." All those other rounded corners sharpened up a bit.

This call to viciousness is a peculiar game of "Last Man Standing" with the prize being a lifetime supply of loneliness and alienation. The only stop on the Asshole Express is Bitter Old Man Town, living alone and cultivating your anger like a tomato plant. I think I'll step off before this train pulls out again.

So I'm going to go all peace, love, and understanding now, right? No, of course not. It's not easy or even feasible to change one's nature so I'm starting small and following one of the best pieces of advice I was ever given: Never pass up an opportunity to shut the fuck up. And no, the irony is not lost on me after writing all this.

So I reluctantly don a filter (which is actually more of a live-broadcast delay) allowing me to self-censor. "Do you really need to say/write that?" is now a mantra. We'll see how it goes.

Insert awkward pause here.