INSIDE MY HEAD
IT’S NOT MY FAULT
It seemed natural to make a pot of coffee when I returned from America. The rich, heady aroma of a European blend excited my taste buds before it was finished brewing. I pulled out my LAPD mug (motto: "Simon de Montfort was right") and waited in anticipation of some real coffee. American coffee and beer are in the same canoe, so to speak.
I looked into the Abyss today, and true to form, it stared back at me. I tried to make myself intellectually healthy, and came away from the doctor sicker than when I went. I turned my thoughts inward—introspection we call it in theses days of Talk-Show psychology, where Rhodes Scholars Rikki Lake and Geraldo dwell—to figure out what drives me to do the things I do.
I was hoping to find the answers to my personality questions. I found answers, all right. Unfortunately, the questions were from an episode of Jeopardy! that I missed (isn’t that Trebek fellow a hoot?). "I’ll take ‘The Freudian Triumvirate’ for $200, Alex" my mind thrust at me amid the screaming vacuum, "and let’s hope it’s a Daily Double".
I marveled at the labyrinth of nooks, crannies and recesses in my psyche. What secrets were stashed here? What repressed memories of dysfunctional relationships and emotional abuse lay hidden in this misty spiderwork? I peeked around every corner, delved into each hole, and was aghast at what I found. Or didn’t find, as things turn out.
Nothing. There was nothing there. No forgotten horrors of childhood trauma. No therapist-induced flashbacks of sexual abuse. Nothing at all. Imagine my disappointment. I was already teetering on the brink of my sanity. This may plunge me over the edge, to be swallowed by that Abyss, who until now had only watched (and stared—which I’ve always found rather impolite). Who was I to blame for the failings in my life? Who would accept the culpability for my misdeeds? Certainly not me! That would be un-American, and I’m already in enough trouble with the flag-wavers.
I’ll find them, sooner or later. Whomever or whatever is responsible for all the bad things that have ever happened to me must be out there somewhere. If it takes the rest of my natural life, I’ll find them (or it) so help me (insert deity of your choice here, so as not to offend anyone’s religious sensibilities, by God). I’ll find them ,and they’ll be sorry that they ever denied my right to my fair share of neuroses. In the meantime, maybe Roseanne could lend me a few of hers.