Walking to the subway this morning, crossing 8th avenue, this woman plodded through the crowd ahead of me. I came up pretty close to her, I guess, because she heard the music leaking from my earbuds and turned to look. I brushed past her, muttering "how 'bout walking a little fucking faster?" and came close to throwing an elbow at her. Apparently, I'm angry today.
I was angry yesterday, too, but it didn't really come welling up until poker. I played poorly and got behind early. Lately that's been a problem for me and I haven't been able to recover. Instead I just found myself increasingly annoyed by the whif of b.o. coming from the player to the right of me and the chatter that kept bouncing around the table while I was trying to make decisions. Most of those decisions were poor ones, and I don't blame anyone at all for their behavior — I'm probably the biggest mouth of all the players, with my bad puns and re-interpreted song lyrics. In fact I was having, overall, a pretty good time. And then, at some point... I think after losing a four-way all-in which made me buy in for the third time, I got angry.
It went downhill pretty quickly from there. Ultimately I went all in again with my last $28. A reasonable bet, considering. But, of course, I lost. The other person had the single card I was worried about (A to my K) and pulled the flush I wanted on the four-way all-in earlier, and I made a meaningless straight on the river. I got up and left; got my friend in a cab and ended up walking home — a good hour-long walk.
I figured by the time I got home I'd walked off the rage, but it welled back up again when I walked in the door — because now I'd have to/get to voice it to Amy. And I did, using the word "fuck" with several "motherfuckers" thrown in for good measure.
Apparently a semi-decent night's sleep didn't help either.
I'm pissed at myself for being the way I am — I feel like my self is on a little inflatable dinghy atop a huge sea of emotions. I have no control which way the wind blows and how high the water swells. I'm angry because I have to swallow all the petty condescentions and disrespecting remarks of my boss. From her, it isn't personal — she treats everyone like shit. Not just me. But day-in and day-out of that gets to me. There's a kid coming — and I'm not who I think a kid should have for a father. I'm horrible with money, to begin with. And I'm just not — I don't know how to put this — I'm just not interested enough in playing the game. I mean by that, that I am not upwardly mobile. I don't have a five year plan. Or a one year plan. Or a six month plan. I look at the moment and the moment after this one, but that's only when I'm not obsessing about the past and how I've failed, or the distant future when I forsee failure.
When I was in my theater lab, every year we'd have to sit in a chair "on stage" in front of everyone and grade how we did the year before; and then we'd have to say what our artistic goals were for the following year. I hated this. It stressed me out to insane levels. (As did lab in general, at times — but in a good way. It forced me to do difficult things all the time.) One year, when it was my turn, I walked down from the chairs in the risers and across the stage and to the back of the room, where there was a curtain that stretched across the width of the room. It hid all the small set pieces and boxes of props that were left in the room. I went through the curtain, closed it behind me, and then shouted at the top of my lungs "Fuck You Fuck You FUCK YOU!" I took a moment, and a deep breath, and then walked back out onto the stage, sat down, and did my thing. I felt better for it.
I need a Fuck You Room. I need somewhere I can go and vent and scream and get all the dark shit out. This blog can't be it. I'm too polite and censored here. I suppose my journal, which I hardly keep up anymore, could be it — but that's not visceral enough, not physical enough. The gym doesn't really do it (perhaps, partly, because my workouts are so easy these days) although it helps, some.
I think I'm finally coming around to accept the fact that I am an angry person. I don't know how to deal with it, but I am. At least, last night, I left when I started to get really angry. I didn't throw down my cards or push my chips angrily away. I just said "I think I should go. I'm starting to get really angry." So, that's a plus. But it's still seething and roaming around inside of me — I can feel it bubbling under the surface. I want to hit someone. I want to give someone the poison that's in me — make them feel it and hurt them with it. That's not healthy. It's not helpful. It's not good.
For now, I'll just keep smiling at the receptionist and saying a (hopefully) cheerful "Good morning" and telling bad jokes and trying to act normal. This will subside. It always, eventually does.
poker update: game two — bought in for: $90; lost: $90; total for the year: -$63.
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