Dude, I'm Seriously Fucked Up.Submitted by ridiculous at 2010-12-03 09:48:07 EST
Rating: 1.59 on 36 ratings (36 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I don’t know why it is that my brain occasionally fucks with me.
I have engaged in extensive internal debate on this subject, I have even opened the subject to external debate a time or two, each time reaching one of two responses: “Yeah! Why the fuck does it do that?!” or “Dude, you’re seriously fucked up.” This latter group is in denial.
Maybe “fucks with me” isn’t the correct description. Perhaps I mean that it keeps me honest? No, I mean, it does, but that isn’t the most apt descriptor either. I think what I mean is that my brain periodically checks to be sure I am still paying attention to what it is sending me (I am fully cognizant of how ridiculous that sounds.).
Sometimes when I am a little slow, it almost gets away with its cockamamie notions.
You ever find yourself with a ketchup squeeze bottle wondering just how far it can shoot or whether that woman in the next booth would feel it if you squeezed the thin red line onto the back of her hair? Ever feel the momentary impulse to grab the plate from right in front of someone and fling it all over them? How about wanting to trip the business man who brushes past you in such a rush to get absolutely no fucking where important? Am I the only one, or is that kid with an armload of books begging for someone to knock them over? Yeah, I thought so. These people are asking for it, or so my brain would have me believe.
You know what it’s like? It’s like in a cartoon when the little Devil and Angel pop out to talk to the character? Like that, but a little different. You see, cartoons always led me to believe that there would be an angelic counterpart. Y’know, someone or something to be the voice of reason and sanity? Some part of my brain to try and talk me into helping the homeless, or feeding a stray dog? Or at least to provide a little balance! Some sort of counterweight to these silly ideas!
Sometimes I indulge, it’s a guilty pleasure really, I can typically convince my brain that something so overt isn’t necessary to convey the same desire or disdain. But, sometimes, my pleas fall on deaf ears… Sometimes nothing else will satiate desire. Nothing, but to the toddlers expression when I’ve taken its candy, or the exaggerated gesture which causes the bicyclist to panic and crash, (Fucking bicycles shouldn’t be on the sidewalk anyway! My tiny, trident wielding, friend croons.). Sometimes, my brain will not be satisfied, unless, I reach out and gently squeeze a shapely posterior or pair of perky breasts in a crowded elevator. “They’re always too shocked to do anything about it.” He whispers this to undermine my protestations.
You know what is really strange about all this? The more I allow him these little whimsies, the more he likes them and the more he talks about them. My little antagonist tries to encourage me to go after the attractive woman passing by. He flashes memories before my senses. I can see my girlfriend, taste her, smell her, feel her, not just her either, the waitress, the girl in the elevator, hell, every woman that ever made me hard. They’re all her and she is all of them, sometimes I can’t keep control.
Sometimes his ideas aren’t just silly though… Sometimes they’re downright mean.
Have you ever caught yourself reaching to shove a woman off a subway platform as a train approaches? Maybe you’ve, yanked your foot back, just before a distracted construction guy tripped over it and impaled himself on rebar? “Wouldn’t be your fault.” My rosy, little, cloven hoof friend intones.
Have you ever come to your senses while standing over your sleeping girlfriend with a knife in hand?
My friend whispers to me about these ideas; he’s always asking me why I don’t just do what I want to? “Life is short. You’ll like it. Imagine the power, imagine being able to...”
“…teach that snotty bitch not to stand so close to the edge.”
“…remind that motherfucker that construction is dangerous and that he’s been fucking with the wrong guy.”
“… shut her the hell up!”
“How many times have you begged her to shut her mouth so you wouldn’t lose it? How many times did she compare you to that fucking pussy ex of hers? Who the fuck cares what her Father thinks, or how much money that corporate cocksucker made last year? He’s got calluses on his lips, rug burns on his knees and no fucking spine and we’re supposed to be impressed by him?!”
And sometimes, I worry…
I worry about my friends advice, about where he is taking my life. Sure, he’s almost always right, but I still worry. I worry because the freezer is full, I can hear the neighbors dog sniffing at the door whenever he’s out for a walk and I worry because the girl at the grocery store keeps looking at me funny whenever I go buy new car fresheners… My brain says I should get a new freezer or learn to cook, soon.