If you have read my last few posts, they have been a little “off” from what I normally prattle on about. Instead of misanthropic hackery, violence, drinking, or random sex bits (talk, not the actual bits), the darkness of my words have been coming from a different font of creativity. One that is totally familiar and alien at the same time. While I have been finding it difficult to get into the swing of things, I do follow other blogs; many of them are similar to what used to come from my twisted brain. Sometimes, amidst the words of others, I find the strangest wisdom, from the most unexpected places.
A couple of days ago, I came to an understanding. At first, I have to admit, that I was a bit dismayed by my new appreciation for things. Then I was afraid for a day. Really afraid. There are things that a Sig Sauer cannot touch; there are things that jujitsu cannot bend, break, twist. It is one of these things that has brought me to where I am. It is one of these things that has walked into my office wearing a propeller beanie, striped shirt, and sandals and happily asked where I store my bacon. Sometimes, reality sets in and it is a real kick in the juevos. Did I spell that correctly? I have no idea, the Spanish I know is not Spanish at all.
I was reading a fellow writer’s blog last night. This particular entry had a sentence that has stuck with me. It was with me when I went to bed last night. It is still ringing in my head. It helped me move from the sense of impending doom that I have been feeling for the last week, and into a sense of sadness. Now, I am used to depression. Anyone with OCD can tell you how
neglecting avoiding obsessions and compulsions can put you into a serious rage, or a equally serious fit of depression. But this is new. You see, instead of feeling like the world is coming to an end, this is more like coming out of the bomb shelter to view the post-apocalyptic world for the first time. Not unlike the C.H.U.D.s, I am blinking in the hazy sun, and looking for flesh to eat. Only I am not eating flesh, or going to eat flesh; I am wondering what is next for the world. You know, what to expect.
I had not realized this until I read that blog entry last night and saw this sentence: “Expectations are just resentments under construction.” Wow. What? Damn. After I read that, the sadness set in. Now, do not take me the wrong way. The snarky chica that put that phrase on the interwebs for all to see is not causing me sadness. The post that the quote I stole came from was actually pretty humorous. It was the realization of my own state of being/thinking/existing that has driven me to the brink of crying like a bitch-baby with a diaper rash made of glass.
I have been existing with my own expectations of things to come. Are my expectations truly the beginning of resentment? I find myself having to chuck aside the fears that I had about my future; fears that turned to foreboding that turned to anxiety that turned to expectations. Now it would seem that they may be turning into resentment. Or at least destined to turn into resentment. While I do see a bit of cynicism in the statement, well, a lot of cynicism actually (sorry, snark! I mean no offense). Why? Because it appears that the statement is saying that if one holds expectations, then one should expect that these expectations will not be met. Since they will not be met, then resentment will set in to replace the failed expectations.
As a reformed optimist (I kicked the habit last week), I always thought that it was always a good practice to expect the best, highest outcome. That optimism turned into cynicism. Why did that happen? How did my waiting for the best turn to waiting for the worst? I have an idea, but I choose to ignore that idea. After reading that blog, and letting that post run through my head like a mantra or some wacky self-affirmation, I came to see that what had happened is that I began to expect the worst. And then it hit me again.
First, I was expecting something good. Second, I began to expect something terrible. That second expectation in itself was sufficient to cause me some resentment. Really, what else would come of a dream suddenly becoming a nightmare? Resentment. I resented that whole turning to begin with. Then I noticed that it was possible that the resentment was still building; it may only be the part of the iceberg that is seen from the Crow’s Nest. But what is the resentment directed towards? After thinking about it, I have no one to resent but myself.
And at that, I am the consummate professional. I can elevate self-hate to a level that rivals the ingenuity that was required to build the pyramids. Most people that know me, know that I am a hater. A damn good hater. If you manage to get on my bad side (which is really easy to do, do not test me), there usually is no good side to get back on. I carry a grudge like Shorty Mac carries around his massive cock: in my pants and ready to thwap a mushroom stamp on a bitch’s head at a moment’s notice. But resentment? That is something I have never really considered when it comes to myself. Even less so when it comes to things that I hold close to the fiber of my being. Now, I am dripping with the stuff. It is hanging around my neck like and albatross (what in seven fucks does that mean, anyway?) or like St. Anger (I wish it were just anger, I could roll or role with that).