A Non-Newtonian Fluid (maddening) wrote,
A Non-Newtonian Fluid
maddening

I sat down, thought I was going to watch the 15 minute student film THX: 1138, turns out it was the full length feature film and because Robert Duvall was just that damned alluring when he was at that age, I ended up continuing to watch it.
Until I fell asleep. I vaguely remember taking off my glasses because my neck hurt. So I was already pretty out of it.
I awoke to a scene of chaotic confusion and noise on the screen. I've seen that movie so many times and I still couldn't identify that part.

I went into the bathroom just now to blow my nose and ended up ranting at myself in the mirror about men, the ones in my life and how they've all found a way to let me down.

Ever talk to yourself in the mirror? mentally providing the answers/questions/comments that spur on your conversation?
I like it. It's a release sometimes for all the things I never actually get to say. And sometimes, it's just good to know what my face looks like when, in the flow of conversation, I call someone an anally intruded sock puppet or when I'm rehearsing confessions and denials that will never happen.

This is probably on some checklist for mental illness. I've been doing it since I was about 8 years old at least. I can remember my brother walking into the kitchen and finding me telling my reflection in the microwave oven door that I hated him and that I was going to get him.
That was his favorite torture at me for a month. Until I did something else he could use as ammo, or he just got bored and went back to pretending he was dead until I was convinced, scared and screaming. He did that at least once a week for quite awhile. Every time he'd take it far enough that I'd believe him, despite it always being fake before. I'd always be just *sure* that this time, it was real and by ignoring it, I was in effect ignoring his death. He'd always "wake up" just about the time I started running for the phone to call 911. And I'd pummel him with small, angry, useless fists while he laughed at me.

I've talked to people who are in permanent relationships with their therapists over less.

I think it's easier for me to be wry, sarcastic, or angry than sad. Well okay. It's *easier* to be sad, but it's easier not to feel disgust at myself for all the *whining* if I'm wry, sarcastic, or angry.
Apparently the cast-iron bitch thing is looked upon with an indulgent humor. And I do it often enough that it's a little difficult to tell the difference in text. Well, in person or on the phone too.
My powers of communication are just reduced to one long drone of 'angry' and it's all dismissable.
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