I've always felt I walked a very wobbly tightrope between right as rain and misery guts.
A personality akin to a trapdoor, ready to flip open and drop you into the mouth of a crocodile at any given moment.
It's not exactly my most sparkling quality and it's one I'm sure is the most frustrating to those who have to deal with me on a semi-regular basis.
Recently I have noticed my hair pin has been firing more frequently than ever before, and for the dumbest of reasons.
To make matters worse what comes firing out is always a surprise to those in the splash zone. It could be tears (I love to cry), it could be rage (I will make you want to cry), it could be silence (the scariest sound) or it could be the JT 1000 Super Trifecta.
A few years ago whilst I was in the hospital frustration boiled over at my circumstances and I had the fattest cry in front of 5 visitors all squashed around my small bed, internally urging them to leave so I could eviscerate the nurse who had pissed me off in peace. Before leaving my Dad made sure to point out that looking at me in that moment he saw his father, and himself, my lovely short fuse lineage in all it's glory. He knew what the snap felt like, he once quit a job on a whim because he found out a less skilled colleague made as much money as he did and nothing that was said could stop him walking. I asked him if they had offered him more money, would he have stayed? In short, No. It was about principal, and before he knew it he was already driving home.
Although he seems unbothered by the quality, I can't say I'm too fond of this particular DNA strand.
Have you ever tried pushing those wiry, plastic snakes back into those peanut tins after they have exploded out around a room? I haven't either, but I imagine it's fucking annoying and that is exactly how the clean up feels after a snap.
My favourite method is pretending nothing happened, we didn't just sit in silence for 3 hours or I didn't just flood my pillow with tears, but no matter how calm of an exterior, internally my brain is awkwardly shuffling around collecting snakes and coiling them back in my peanut tin.
I often tell my Dad that I think we both need a good therapist and he scoffs at the thought. Why would we possibly need therapy? As we sit, just two little frogs on a log ready to flamethrower your entire life and hop way forever in a moments notice.
That's just been on my mind a lot recently.
Instead of you know...getting actually help with my problem. I have instead placed a bottle of hand lotion on my bedside table so I can pretend I'm in a sitcom and aggressively lotion my hands before bed whilst a having a bitch to my dog about all my problems.
10/10 would recommend.
