Thank Odd I Still Have My Sense Of Humour

I am sown soil under mounds of manure. The flower under the shit, with the crushing weight of heartbreak the impetus for my blossoming. I’ve dragged my mind through the shit and muck of mental dystopia for months now, my beleaguered body along for the ride like a child stuck in a car with a smoking, drinking adult. I’ve surrendered completely to neurosis and paranoia and yes even anger. I’ve punched myself. I’ve punched walls. I’ve trashed bookshelves and overturned desks and engaged in suicidal ideation and generally done everything I’d hoped not to do. But anger issues can bare their fangs when you least expect, and also when you most expect. The trick is to not give in. I have not learned the trick. Sure, I’ve learned how to do the trick some of the time. But this isn’t the major leagues, when you can fail seven out of ten times and still be a star. This is real life, when one slip-up can lead to fatal stupidity. I know this because I’ve seen it in visions. Not like supernatural or psychic visions or even psychotic delusions. Just visual imaginings of situations I’m familiar with taken to perhaps gruesome and far-fetched but by no means illogical conclusions, based on levels of anger and fundamentals of physics. Scars the shit out of me. Ha, that was supposed to be scares the shit . . . Great typo, Freudian and everything. My anger sure has scarred the shit out of me. Anyway, I feel like a pitcher who’s struggling with his stuff in danger of losing the lead but guts it out and there’s runners on second and third with two out and their three hitter at the plate with a three and two count and this next few days or weeks or months is that three-two pitch for me. I can’t miss the plate, can’t walk the bases loaded for the cleanup hitter. But I can’t just groove the pitch either. I must be sensible with it. After all, I can strike the batter out and get out of the inning. Shit happens, runners get on base, runs even score. But I will protect the lead. I am sown soil under mounds of manure. The flower under the shit, with the crushing weight of heartbreak the impetus for my blossoming. I will burst forth into the open arms of sunlight and warmth and love and I will make peace with my neurosis and paranoia and yes even my anger by cutting my pinky finger off. That should really scar the shit out of me.