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?

Day #3 of My Life As a Fright Mask

Drought! Plague! Pestilence! Worst corn crop in two decades. Figures. I know! None of you reading this are actually here, are you? This is my own personal hell, where my favorite grain of all time dies in the soil, right? See, if I were someone else, it would have been the BEAN crop, or an apple tree blight or something. But because it’s me, it’s the corn crop!! Ahhh, it all makes sense now! We’re in a hell of my own personal intent!

OK, fine. Maybe you are here. But I’m sure this is my fault, too; another arm of my own peculiar gypsy curse. Not sure what I’ve done to the gypsies, since I’m pretty sure I don’t know any gypsies, but maybe one of them can clear up the confusion.

Delayed awareness: two entries ago I was commenting that the only way I could think of to stop my biting the inside of my mouth every two and a half seconds was to viciously slap my own face, as hard as I could. I wasn’t doing that in public, I was, however, doing it at home. To the degree that I had ugly self-inflicted bruises on myself. Well, I have to admit that it worked. My face was so bruised and swollen from the self-abusive face punching that I stopped biting myself. But it took me a little while to realize: I’m on steroids.

Correct that: I knew I was on steroids for the Bell’s Palsy; I didn’t realize the effect that steroids has on women: murderous rage. Agression. Hostility. Short-temperedness. At one point in my self-directed rage, I had asked, "Why am I acting like this?" And I heard a voice from someone, somewhere, calmly: "You’re on steroids." Startled, I went and looked it up on Web MD. Yup! Those were the effects of steroids on women!  I realize I’m short tempered and crabby to begin with. Steroids just made it 100x worse.

Personally, I think that I need a better Day Book to learn from. On August 11th, I went and looked up the day on my three daybooks. The Pagan Books of Days is completely empty for August 11th. The Real Witches’ Year talks about the color orange.

This was from the Witches’ Book of Days:

"Puck Fair. Dress in boyish clothes and with your female friends enjoy a night of playful masculinity!"

After 2/10ths of a second’s contemplation: no, no, non, nyet, not happenin’. First of all: why would I do that? Second of all: why would any of my female friends want to do that? Third: what exactly IS "playful masculinity"? Grab my crotch and yell "Gotta get me some o’ THAT!" at passing bimbos? With my luck, one of those passing trollops would have taken self-defense classes, see me as a threat to her safety, and level me with a well-placed kick in my non-existent nuts. I already have enough physical health problems. Grab a basketball and head for the courts? I’m five feet, two inches tall! I can’t even see the basket, much less be able to dump a ball into it! Fourth: what are "boyish clothes"? Jeans? Most women already wear those. A jock strap? How weird and uncomfortable. And fifth: um ..... no.

I’m still not sure why the writers of this day book saw the 11th as a bizarre cross-dressing event. Not my thang, sorry. Luckily, Wikipedia has another version of the Puck Fair:

Every year a group of people go up into the mountains and catch a wild goat. The goat is brought back to the town and the "Queen of Puck", traditionally a young school girl from the local primary schools who crowns the goat "King Puck". The "King" is then put into a small cage on a high stand in the middle of the town square which signifies that the festivities may begin. The pubs stay open until 3.00 AM, which is a legal exception due to the fair as all bars in Ireland normally must close at 2.00 AM, this is a source of contention for the local police ...

Scholars speculate that the fair's origins stems from Pre-Christian Ireland, from the Celtic festival of Lughnasa which symbolized the beginning of the harvest season, and that the goat is a pagan fertility symbol.

Now, I have no intention of torturing and imprisoning a wild goat. I am a Capricorn, so have some idea who the "pagan fertility symbol" is. Not quite sure what to do as far as celebrating Puck Fair Day, though.

See, this is what we’re missing. The quintessential Daybook Writer. Damien was a genius at this – if you go through his prison journal, it’s much easier to use that as a Daybook than some of these dumb books. DAMIEN!!! Write a Daybook!

He was best at the preparation, or the anticipatory side of things. Because he saw things so far ahead, he would be perfect at saying (for example): "You’re going to need a carnelian crystal 4 weeks from now. Look for an occult store or an online vendor and buy a ...", or "Prepare your grocery list for the Harvest Feast next week. Here are some ideas."

These other books spring things on you without warning, and you don’t have the advance notice to celebrate things properly. He could also connect his passion, the Tarot, to his Daybook.

(*sigh*) Well, in the meanwhile, until Mr. Signpost figures out that the world is in desperate need of his talent for writing daybooks ...or Tarot books as well ... I’ll have to continue with mine. He was also saying that he wanted to do Tarot readings. Fortunately for him, I’m still completely set against going back to Salem for anything, so he’ll never get the opportunity to do a Tarot reading that practically screams, "She’s under a contagious curse! Step back! Very carefully! And now ... RUN LIKE HELL!" (I wonder how that would show up in a tarot reading, anyway?)

Tonight – my obsession is in the United States, in Minneapolis.