As of late, I seem to be quite incapable of maintaining mental composure. Though wholly unnoticed at first, more and more often I am being interrogated by random strangers about the condition of my overall well-being. I’m not well. There’s a noticeable fracture somewhere. Either some synapses have spaced themselves out significantly, or they’ve shorted out in some sense. The stony pillars upon which my morals, self-control, and self-restraint stand are rapidly being eroded by my environment. My good moods seem few and far-between, and they’re fairly feeble in the sense that it takes little to cause them to falter and fail altogether.
I just found out that, as of two weeks ago, I’m eligible for personal leave, but I need $168 for a roundtrip Greyhound ticket home. I need to take a week off…reclaim my sanity a little.
Yesterday I took my roommate’s mp3 player out of his drawer, walked across the campus, and dropped it in a trash can. I can’t beat him to death with the 2x4 stashed in my locker, or slit his throat with the shank in my mattress. I figured taking away the man’s music was the next best thing. I figure if I can’t just hit him and take out all my aggression toward him all at once (at the risk of both expulsion and federal imprisonment), I’ll go the “death by a thousand cuts” route and fuck with him a little bit every day. Now, there’s no need to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong, I’m well aware of that. But, does it make me happy? Immeasurably so. I have a low tolerance for bitchassness, of which he has an abundant supply. One cut down, 999 to go.
