I’m alone in bed, with the only company in the form of my cat. He’s napping, and I’m jealous of how he lives to eat, sleep, and play. We should all live so simply, I think.
Back in the day, I would have taken some beer to my room, put on loud music, and drank by myself until I felt slumber’s sweet arms embracing me. But things are different now. I’m trying to be good about self-care, or at least, better than what I used to be.
Still, there’s no denying the pleasure in self-destruction. To know that you are the master of your own future, as unpleasant as it may be, is powerful enough to get anyone drunk. After all, if you never dream of good things happening to you, you can’t be disappointed, can you? And I’ve had my fair share of disappointment.
There’s a lot of uncertainty in life. Being self-destructive takes away a lot of the guesswork of how you’ll end up. Alcoholic? Liver cirrhosis. Smoker? Lung cancer. You know what you’re getting into.
As for me? My favorite self-destructive behavior is pushing people away. Isolation is my drug, one that tempts me to keep testing people’s limits until they pull back. That validates my perception of the world as being awful, and thus, I find vindication in being right.