Not like I need more distractions . . .
I bought a little black book. It’s for writing down ideas pertinent to a particular story I have in mind. I’ve lost track of how many such little books I have lying about, each with a few handwritten pages, stories I’ve long since forgotten. It’s fun to reread these (not) and wonder what on earth I was thinking about that made me think it was worth 2 to 5 dollars to buy that book.
Anyway, I keep meaning to write the word nephilim down in my little black book, but I am distracted.
I am distracted by Bubble Spinner. It’s at the top of my frequently visited list, beating out gmail and even xHamster. Yes, I would rather toss colored bubbles around than watch xHamster. Where are my priorities?
So what distracts you?
D.
I’m playing through Bioshock. Again. Bioshock 2 comes out in February, so I want to relive the experience before it’s old news.
For those of you unacquainted with Bioshock, here’s a quick intro.
So I’m wondering, to what extent do we have control over our neuroses? Can will power alone undo ingrained personality traits?
As I think I’ve written (albeit long ago), I grew up in a war zone. The arguments were constant and high stakes, and since my bedroom shared a wall with my parents’ bedroom, I heard everything. How my brother (who shared my room) slept through it all is beyond me, or perhaps he did hear it and chose to keep quiet. I used to bang my fist on the wall and scream at them to be quiet. I don’t recall it ever doing any good.
I’ve always attributed my conflict-averse personality to this aspect of my childhood. It’s a pervasive trait, and I consider it a neurosis since it does impair me, at least to a mild degree. When I was in private practice, I made Karen do all the firings. Not that there were many, but she got the job. I would leave the office when she was ready to do the deed. I’ve never been able to watch more than ten or fifteen minutes of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Crazy shit like that. In public, at work, in the hospital, if folks are yelling at each other, I’ll run the other way.
The thing is, it’s sometimes necessary for me to stay. To not run the other way. To endure, to listen, to keep my head together. And it’s damn difficult.
If this were a phobia, I could cure it by gradually ramping up the intensity of the exposure. Start by watching Bill O’Reilly interviews, perhaps, and then graduate to Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Eventually, I would go on the Maury Povich Show.
I wish there were an easier way.
D.