Post by Deleted on Oct 11, 2015 22:56:25 GMT
Sometimes, I wonder how my life would’ve turned out if I had opted for college instead of sticking the proverbial middle-finger at my academic future and diving straight into that fucked-up business known as “professional wrestling”.
But nothing could be further from my mind as I stood at the El Paso Union Depot, bag in hand and ready to get the hell out of that place.
The only thought on my mind was the Chicken Scramble, which looked more and more like the express route I needed to get on to restart the career I’d left in shambles over a year ago.
Some people look back at a certain point in their lives and pine for the good ol’ days. Others look back and see only regrets; what-ifs, should’ve, would’ve, could’ve-beens.
Mmmm… Beans; I could kill for a good bowl of chili-con-carne and a side of cornbread or sourdough. Throw in a side of sliced-avocadoes and I could honestly kill another man at the drop of a hat.
If I were to look back at the years I’ve lived right now, I could only tell you one thing:
What does it say about my life, that every moment of unadulterated joy I’ve experienced has been tempered immediately afterwards by the pang of instant regret?
I was never that much of thinker.
I just always did what felt right… No… that doesn’t sound right at all.
I guess I’ve always done whatever the fuck I felt like doing at the spur of the moment. As long as I got my kicks, or something that approximated that rush or that gratification.
Somebody once told me that I might have some form of ICD, Impulse Control Disorder. I could write you an entire tract on this, but I might as well paraphrase (see – plagiarize) the bullet-points out of a psychiatric journal (see – “fucking shrink paper”):
Impulse, growing tension, pleasure on acting followed by relief from the urge and last, but not least, guilt (which may or may not follow, depending on how fucked up you are as an individual.)
I could’ve taken it as a sign that I needed help, but I ended up slapping the guy so hard; he fell head-first onto a concrete floor.
I also learnt something else that day, jail sucked just as hard in Japan as it did back home.
Crazy?
Maybe I’ve become what so many people in this strange business have feared in the thick of their careers: a living manifestation of the very gimmick they used to sell themselves in the squared-circle.
Where did Johnny Rousseau end and Mr. Crazy begin?
If the only distinguishing barrier was that sweaty mask, then maybe I really did have a problem.
As soon as I boarded the Sunset Limited and got to my seat, I closed my eyes and hoped that I was exhausted enough to pass out for the duration of the trip, less I be left alone again with my thoughts.
All aboard for the Alamo.
But nothing could be further from my mind as I stood at the El Paso Union Depot, bag in hand and ready to get the hell out of that place.
The only thought on my mind was the Chicken Scramble, which looked more and more like the express route I needed to get on to restart the career I’d left in shambles over a year ago.
Some people look back at a certain point in their lives and pine for the good ol’ days. Others look back and see only regrets; what-ifs, should’ve, would’ve, could’ve-beens.
Mmmm… Beans; I could kill for a good bowl of chili-con-carne and a side of cornbread or sourdough. Throw in a side of sliced-avocadoes and I could honestly kill another man at the drop of a hat.
If I were to look back at the years I’ve lived right now, I could only tell you one thing:
What does it say about my life, that every moment of unadulterated joy I’ve experienced has been tempered immediately afterwards by the pang of instant regret?
I was never that much of thinker.
I just always did what felt right… No… that doesn’t sound right at all.
I guess I’ve always done whatever the fuck I felt like doing at the spur of the moment. As long as I got my kicks, or something that approximated that rush or that gratification.
Somebody once told me that I might have some form of ICD, Impulse Control Disorder. I could write you an entire tract on this, but I might as well paraphrase (see – plagiarize) the bullet-points out of a psychiatric journal (see – “fucking shrink paper”):
Impulse, growing tension, pleasure on acting followed by relief from the urge and last, but not least, guilt (which may or may not follow, depending on how fucked up you are as an individual.)
I could’ve taken it as a sign that I needed help, but I ended up slapping the guy so hard; he fell head-first onto a concrete floor.
I also learnt something else that day, jail sucked just as hard in Japan as it did back home.
Crazy?
Maybe I’ve become what so many people in this strange business have feared in the thick of their careers: a living manifestation of the very gimmick they used to sell themselves in the squared-circle.
Where did Johnny Rousseau end and Mr. Crazy begin?
If the only distinguishing barrier was that sweaty mask, then maybe I really did have a problem.
As soon as I boarded the Sunset Limited and got to my seat, I closed my eyes and hoped that I was exhausted enough to pass out for the duration of the trip, less I be left alone again with my thoughts.
All aboard for the Alamo.