The Night I Almost Murdered All of Boston ... or Fun with Steroids, Part II

I had no idea what of what would happen yesterday, but so many things went so badly wrong that all of the affirmations in the world weren’t able to save me.  The car not starting was the cheery tip of one spectacularly dismal iceberg:  I didn’t get to work until 10:00a.  Now we’re talking at least 4 hours of work on the other side of the day.  Finally got ahold of the contractor, no he wouldn’t be doing the floors.  Called the floor guy.  MAYBE he could stop by Saturday afternoon.  Unfortunately, Saturday morning was the freaking car appointment and I had no idea how long that was going to take.  I’m already stressed out at the time constraints.

I leave in plenty of time to catch the 6:55 pm train.  I miss one bus by less than a minute.  Of COURSE I did.  The next bus was supposed to arrive in 8 minutes.  It did not.  It arrived closer to 25 minutes later, and I’m watching my window for catching the 6:55 grow smaller and smaller.  Despite the fact that city traffic is being horribly re-routed onto other roads to support repair on a critical bridge, Boston has inexplicably decided to do construction on at least 3 supporting roads at the same time, while scheduling a baseball and ice hockey game simultaneously.  I’m beginning to understand why people might storm into, say, Boston city planners’ offices with bloodshot eyeballs, threatening mayhem and civil disorder at the very least.  There are no cabs at all at the Marriott Residences across the street.  None.  Not one.  Of COURSE there aren’t.

I blame myself for taking so long to pee before I left the office that it’s my own damn fault I missed the bus.  My body betrayed me, THAT’s why I missed the bus.  Standing alone in the dark, I start viciously slapping my own face in punishment, berating myself for being a bald-faced, retarded slow-peeing c*nt.  It feels good, doing that.  I deserve the punishment.  Once I start, I have difficulty stopping.

The stupid bus FINALLY shows up and proceeds to inch through congested traffic.  No explanation as to why the fool is so late.  It takes the full remaining 20-minute window of time to make a 6-minute trip to North Station.

Where I am blocked by crowds of drooling, drunken Boston Bruins addicts and can’t even get into North Station because just as Boston has no concept at all of traffic planning, the TD Garden has no concept of event and foot traffic planning.  I miss the 6:55 train by :30 seconds.  Next train:  90 minutes later, at 8:40 pm.  I am now in a state of white hot rage.  I will not be getting home until 10:00 at night.  I will have to forego all of my medication.  I will lose hours of sleep.  The next Bostonian who even touches me was on the verge of being punched so violently in the face, they’d still be picking up stray teeth this morning.  I am literally cursing people out loud. 

I go back outside, praying for a cab to pull up to the station.  It will cost me $100 to get home, but at that point I don’t care.  Not a cab in sight.  Of COURSE there aren’t.  I gimp back into the hell hole that is North Station, cursing people out as I go.

The first stupid woman who plops her fat wobbly ass down on a bench next to me and shoves a pizza slice reeking of garlic and onions into her drooling mouth gets, “Get the F*CK away from me with that disgusting sh*t!” and scurries away like a rat.  The next stupid cow who wanders over babbling into her cell phone gets the same thing.  I’m in such a state of rage I’m starting to double over with stomach pains.  If I could lay my hands on something sharp I’d stab myself in the gut with it, just to get the pain out.

Courtesy http://www.baggelboy.com/category/cartoons/

Tears are blinding me.  I keep saying, “I hate this place, I HATE this place,” because I genuinely do.  I have never hated any place in the world as much as I hate Massachusetts and Boston.  And thanks to all the crap doubling up on me, I can’t get out!  Then I start in on, “I’ll pray for your death on a daily basis,” to everyone I find distasteful, which is just about everyone.  I keep telling myself to stop, but it gets worse.  And then worse.  I’m mumbling curses at people around me like a bag lady.  I don’t care.   I hate everyone and everything in the hell hole that is Boston.

I rarely see rage like this.  Not saying I never have, but it’s rare.  And once it started escalating, I couldn’t swallow it back down.  I didn’t know how.

On the train.  Trust me, no one sat down next to me because I glared ferociously at each and every onboarding passenger, and I’m sure they anticipated being stabbed to death on the train.   They weren’t far off.  Conductor:  a powerless fat woman wobbling up and down the aisles, acting like the Queen of England.  Ugly as sin.  I’m PRAYING for a weapon but didn’t have one.  I suppress urges to stick out a foot and trip her so she goes sprawling in the aisles, hopefully breaking her neck on the way down and dying a painful death on the dirty floor.

She doesn’t help her own cause by grabbing a microphone and whining nasally into it that due to an “accident in Andover”, we’ll be even further delayed.    (The accident was caused by another stupid woman in an SUV doing a U-turn on the tracks.  Of COURSE it was!)  My white hot rage ratchets up another notch.

Women all around me on the train are screeching into their cell phones in at least 3 languages.  I’m PRAYING for a pistol to materialize in my hand, so that I could shoot each and every one of them in cold blood.  No weapons materialize.  The small voice inside of me pleading, “Stop it, stop it, please stop it,” is so faint I’m only dimly aware of it.

I know I’m not psychotic, I know it, but it’s the closest I have ever come to a psychotic breakdown in my life.  Tears are still trickling down my face as the violent rage consumes most of the conscious part of me, so out of proportion to the trigger, it is complete insanity.  When I finally get home I collapse in numb exhaustion on the bed and sleep in my clothes, including my coat.  I wake up once with what feels like a high fever, but I am unable to get up and verify that.  I fall back into a deep, sick, pond-scum green colored sleep.  The next morning the fever is gone.  Both eyes are completely bloodshot, and I still have a stomach ache.

I finally getting around to tossing the Special Edition of Mas Que Amor on my I-Tunes, hear “Little Things” for the first time and burst into sobbing tears.  It’s a One Dimension … One Direction … whatever the British group is called …. Song that Il Volo chose to sing and they couldn’t have picked a song better designed to elicit just that sort of reaction.  I can’t believe I’m bawling like this.  I’m completely out of control at the moment.

I still can’t figure out what happened.  The last time I remember an emotional meltdown this out of control was … (enlightenment slowly dawns) … when they put me on steroids to kill off the Bell’s Palsy … only to discover that I have a serious tolerance issue when it comes to steroids.  Which is to say, no tolerance at all.  None.  Zip.  And my PCP knew that.  I’ve just had my leg cramp medication changed on Monday, to something much stronger.  They’re trying to treat the severe tendon and muscle cramps that are rendering me more and more lame as a neurological issue.  Like the BP was a neurological issue.  I pull out the bottle and frown at the label. 

Son … of … a … how did I miss this?