I don’t like me in that mood, I scare me when I’m in that mood, it is so strange, it’s almost like watching a movie starring me, playing a role I just don’t understand or want to play, but I’m drawn to it. There is a very real part of me that is scared of this part of me.
I’m old, older than dirt. Nearly every bone in my body has been broken, some more than once. There was a time when I would have multiple things broken or fractured or dislodged and any one time. It’s annoying. It was as common to me as a head cold.
I have no business going toe to toe with big guys half my age, but I did and I have done it before and will probably continue to do just exactly that, for reasons that, at best, completely mystify me; at worst scare me.
Herein lies the problem.
They back down and that feeds this thing. This need. This desire to challenge people, apparently the bigger, uglier, dumber, drunker and smellier the better.
I mean, I’m looking up and into this idiots nostrils and I’m saying shit like, “so, am I in your way, should I move” and I press in further. Then he backs away and it feeds this bullshit in my head. It reinforces the myth that I know is a goddamn lie. I take my anger and frustration out on the big guys half my age and they let me.
They just feed the myth that even I don’t believe, but I insist on perpetrating.
I’m simply asking one of them to grow a pair. Don’t back down, I’m old as fuck. That is really, exactly, what I need. I need one of these man-mountains to wipe the blacktop with my face. Then maybe I will get scared and stop this nonsense.
Or maybe, they just feel sorry for this loud mouth old man. They know they could kick my ass without spilling their beer.
Someone said it was therapeutic to write about this, hmm…
Next up, next week: Self Publishing Becomes Self Loathing…