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Your Eternal Reward
Super-Earth
- Joined
- May 28, 2013
This is, I imagine, what you'd expect: I was recommended, by a very close friend, to spew a train of thought on a screen. I've never written a diary before. The only journals I've ever written were in labs, and none of them were anything like what I'm about to do now. First time for everything, I suppose.
I'm not so much frustrated or stressed as I am just sick and tired. Anyone who's known me knows that I'm pretty much the furthest thing from a sensitive person. I'm fair, arguably compassionate, and perhaps even selfless, but largely uninterested in what others are offended by as far as what comes out of my lips. I always figured as long as I'm telling the truth, if someone gets offended, it's their problem, not mine. I have no obligation to entertain someone else's bigotry and self-delusion because it's the truth and, at the end of the day, they're going to have to encounter it one way or another. That's how truth works, regardless of what you want to think. So I see no reason in tripping over myself with padded gloves just to delay the inevitable.
Of course, that kind of logic bites you in the ass from time to time. I once called one of my exes a 'bitch' while we were playing video games - we were throwing taunts at each other the whole time - but this was one she couldn't handle. Something about some kind of abuse she'd gone through before we met. She wasn't really in the position to talk about it so I just hugged her for a bit. The look on her face was like a deer in headlights. She pulled away, went completely fetal and refused to say a word for hours before I finally got her to speak. Another time I made this one girl cry in a philosophy classroom before storming out, and I not a tear-and-dab sniffle either, but full-fledged bawling, because I inadvertently ridiculed her religion by calling out her stance on an ethical argument as completely hypocritical. I knew the professor would make me go after her, so I figured I'd play the nice guy and ask to be excused before he told me to. I didn't genuinely care about her the way I did about my ex, so it was enough that I convinced her to go back to class and stop making a scene. Some part of me wonders whether I was even genuinely concerned about my ex or whether I just wanted her to go back to normal for my own sake so we could be done with it. Maybe I was just confused what I thought was guilt for a frustration that I couldn't just fix her and get back to the game, the way I fixed the other girl and went back to class.
Now that I'm a professional, things have only gotten worse. Gone are the days where everyone's on the same playing field. Welcome to political correctness at its most despicable. The game of tricks, cons and illusions is fun to dive in and out of, but living in it is beyond irritating. You offend one arrogant, whiny little shit and suddenly it escalates further up than you can see. Luckily I'm close with a few well-positioned managers (I said I didn't like the game, I never said I was bad at it) so that got dropped down from corporate consequences to an off-record, verbal apology. I dodged a bullet, but it felt terrible being helpless, needing others to fight my case because I simply didn't have the position in the company to do so. I'm going up the ladder but the stress is literally unbearable. I know it gets better eventually but I can only hold my breath for so long before I snap.
I've always been able to handle a fight. Hell, at this point I even crave it from time to time. I pass by some delinquent or another in the streets and inside I desperately wish they'd start something so I could finally find myself in a situation where I can actually hit back for once - just enjoy the simplicity of being able to push when pushed. I don't even care if I get stabbed again.
I used to take a certain pride in being refined. Classy. But recently I've just felt like it's all been a joke; a paper-thin mask over the real me: A beast. A brutal, belligerent, predatory beast, reveling in pain and violence and fear. And every time that mask rips and I try to pull it back together it just gets weaker and weaker. I think I'm becoming a psychopath.
At this point the only real recourse I find some sort of twisted comfort in - especially since I still can't stand cigarettes - is punching a wall until my knuckles bleed. There's a certain comfort in knowing where the pain is coming from, in taking it all out. It's sick, I know, but I feel a lot less helpless when I do it. But, as you can probably imagine, it does leave marks. Hence why I was urged to do this by one of the few fleshbags with an opinion I actually give a shit about. I don't know if typing this out is supposed to help in itself or is just an enabler for something else, but I don't feel all that different. At least, not yet.
I'm not so much frustrated or stressed as I am just sick and tired. Anyone who's known me knows that I'm pretty much the furthest thing from a sensitive person. I'm fair, arguably compassionate, and perhaps even selfless, but largely uninterested in what others are offended by as far as what comes out of my lips. I always figured as long as I'm telling the truth, if someone gets offended, it's their problem, not mine. I have no obligation to entertain someone else's bigotry and self-delusion because it's the truth and, at the end of the day, they're going to have to encounter it one way or another. That's how truth works, regardless of what you want to think. So I see no reason in tripping over myself with padded gloves just to delay the inevitable.
Of course, that kind of logic bites you in the ass from time to time. I once called one of my exes a 'bitch' while we were playing video games - we were throwing taunts at each other the whole time - but this was one she couldn't handle. Something about some kind of abuse she'd gone through before we met. She wasn't really in the position to talk about it so I just hugged her for a bit. The look on her face was like a deer in headlights. She pulled away, went completely fetal and refused to say a word for hours before I finally got her to speak. Another time I made this one girl cry in a philosophy classroom before storming out, and I not a tear-and-dab sniffle either, but full-fledged bawling, because I inadvertently ridiculed her religion by calling out her stance on an ethical argument as completely hypocritical. I knew the professor would make me go after her, so I figured I'd play the nice guy and ask to be excused before he told me to. I didn't genuinely care about her the way I did about my ex, so it was enough that I convinced her to go back to class and stop making a scene. Some part of me wonders whether I was even genuinely concerned about my ex or whether I just wanted her to go back to normal for my own sake so we could be done with it. Maybe I was just confused what I thought was guilt for a frustration that I couldn't just fix her and get back to the game, the way I fixed the other girl and went back to class.
Now that I'm a professional, things have only gotten worse. Gone are the days where everyone's on the same playing field. Welcome to political correctness at its most despicable. The game of tricks, cons and illusions is fun to dive in and out of, but living in it is beyond irritating. You offend one arrogant, whiny little shit and suddenly it escalates further up than you can see. Luckily I'm close with a few well-positioned managers (I said I didn't like the game, I never said I was bad at it) so that got dropped down from corporate consequences to an off-record, verbal apology. I dodged a bullet, but it felt terrible being helpless, needing others to fight my case because I simply didn't have the position in the company to do so. I'm going up the ladder but the stress is literally unbearable. I know it gets better eventually but I can only hold my breath for so long before I snap.
I've always been able to handle a fight. Hell, at this point I even crave it from time to time. I pass by some delinquent or another in the streets and inside I desperately wish they'd start something so I could finally find myself in a situation where I can actually hit back for once - just enjoy the simplicity of being able to push when pushed. I don't even care if I get stabbed again.
I used to take a certain pride in being refined. Classy. But recently I've just felt like it's all been a joke; a paper-thin mask over the real me: A beast. A brutal, belligerent, predatory beast, reveling in pain and violence and fear. And every time that mask rips and I try to pull it back together it just gets weaker and weaker. I think I'm becoming a psychopath.
At this point the only real recourse I find some sort of twisted comfort in - especially since I still can't stand cigarettes - is punching a wall until my knuckles bleed. There's a certain comfort in knowing where the pain is coming from, in taking it all out. It's sick, I know, but I feel a lot less helpless when I do it. But, as you can probably imagine, it does leave marks. Hence why I was urged to do this by one of the few fleshbags with an opinion I actually give a shit about. I don't know if typing this out is supposed to help in itself or is just an enabler for something else, but I don't feel all that different. At least, not yet.