Talking To Myself

Today, I thought it would be cool if I interviewed myself, but he's not talking to me today. Myself and I have been mortal enemies for years so his refusal did not surprise me. It was just the kind of lowdown, twofaced, backstabbing bullshit that I've come to expect from him. Still, knowing it will happen doesn't make it hurt any less. What explains this antagonism? That's hard to answer, since I don't like talking about myself, and myself doesn't want I to talk about me. What a confounding state of affairs. It's why whenever I would see a psychiatrist, I would spend the first 40 minutes staring straight ahead, giving monosyllabic responses, then in the last 10 or 15 minutes, I would unleash a torrent of verbiage, in a vain attempt to make my life seem worthwhile. That's why I will never see a psychiatrist again: I don't want to know if I'm insane or not, because thinking you're crazy is a lot better than knowing you are. I recommend to anyone reading this that one must practice the art of sublimation, and turn all the negative feelings into something useful. Venting doesn't do anything but make you break stuff and hurt yourself, and someone like me, who so many seem willing to hurt, doesn't need to add to my pain, especially when something negative can become a song or a poem. One thing I used to do when someone played a dirty trick on me was to find someone I could do a favor for as soon as possible. I am still willing to do that, but since I lost my job in November of 2020 (3 weeks before my 25th anniversary with the company) I don't have many opportunities to do that. But enough about myself. I talk about him too often as it is, and here I am trying to give the world good tips on how to keep from cracking each other's heads open, when he has to show up and demand all the attention. I hate him so much I can't help but love him, and he likes sublimating too, so he's not all bad. He's really not. I feel like I'm being tied in knots. I guess I am. This kind of essay I'm writing is pretty much my normal thought process, which pretty much explains why I'm homeless, barely hanging on. I'd cry, but it's kind of funny in a way, and since laughter is a surefire way to keep madness at bay, I guess that's a good thing. Still, there are tears, for what clown worthy of the title doesn't shed a few? Still, I did so much want to interview myself, since he has so much to answer for. Myself didn't care for that last comment. He's not placated by knowing I really love him, and it truly only increases his contempt. He lacerates me with logic, drives away the joy, leaving a barren mindscape wheres dreams find it hard to grow. I'm getting sick of living with myself.

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