...even though perpetrated on a piece of machinery, a keyboard I pounded into pieces in a fit of high-testosterone rage, as it refused to write, was a chink in the armor, a breech in the wall; neurotic, nutty behavior slipped through the cracks and spilled over the edges; with a volley of expletives I hurled the smashed word processor across the room, slamming against the wall, broken drives and disks crashing to the floor.
Not really what one could call `fine tuning' in the course of trying to orchestrate one's destiny, something I claim to be doing, by virtue I sometimes think, of lunatic fiat. I quickly fixed an icy, steely glare on the fool in the mirror who stood there panting, red-faced, a heart attack waiting to happen in every wheezing breath. Then we both turned and walked away.
Today IT seems to have passed and I'm in control...
`Remember', Whitey says,`...if you're in control of it, it's in control of you.' Ok, so I'm not in control of anything at all. Still today is better. I'm sure this doobie a guy just gave me down at the store plays a vital role in my new-found serenity (and my sanity) for the foreseeable future. Given that I may live through the night in relative tranquility I have to say I owe this temporary surcease from life's vexations, in part to the salutary effects of reefer madness.