[Survival value] < 0

Hold that thought.

[I apologize to anyone who has actually already read this entry. In my very typically vague fashion, I've tried to work out my own bullshit without actually directly establishing who/what said bullshit is. Then, some time later - in this case, three hours - I come to my freaking senses and completely rewrite the entire entry. Only this time, I haven't gotten that far yet. I will. In just a moment.]

So, hold that thought.

I'll say this much, the title should now read:
[Survival value] ≥ 0

That's a drastic improvement for those less savvy in the mathematics department.

I'm not that guy. I'm really not.

"Hey, man."
"Hey... you. Person." I can't control that one of my eyebrows is cocked. There are so many things wrong with this situation that I don't even know where to begin. I'm antisocial. I'm on break. I'm an anonymous visitor in this strange, wild, and wonderful state. I'd rather not be bothered with whatever this is going to be. I don't know this guy. He doesn't know me. He's looking at me like he does, though, and something else... oh, shit, he's happy to see me. This can't be a good thing. So much for enjoying my twenty minutes of quiet sanity recovery.
"So... J?"
"You can read. Very good."
"How have you been, man. I haven't seen you in like-"
"Ever?"
"It's been a minute, yeah."
"Wow. What do you want?"
"Do you remember me?"
"Nope."
"What? Stop playin'."
"Done."
"So... I was wondering... if you, uh..."
There's no way I'm helping him finish that sentence. Besides, I honestly don't know the fuck he wants or why he thinks he knows me or how I should know him or why the hell this stupid bullshit has to keep happening to me especially when I go out of my way to try to make sure to avoid ridiculous situations and encounters like this one. Damn.
"You still selling tabs, man? Can I get some from you?"
What the fuck?
"What the fuck?"
"Aren't you the guy?"
"No. I'm definitely not the guy."
"Are you sure, man? I swear you are."
"You better get the fuck out of here and outta my face. What is wrong with you?"
"Oh, hey. It's cool. It's my mistake."
"Hell yeah it is. I'm not a drug dealer."
"But you're just hanging out behind this building."
"I work here, asshole."
"Oh, ok. You just look exactly like my homie J. He used to hook me up all the time."
"I don't need to know any of that. Just get out of here."
"You aren't gonna report me, are you?"
"Report you to who? The dumbass police? They already know, trust me. Just... leave."

Ever since losing nearly fifty pounds, I've had moments like this. Most of them have been more tolerable but equally disorienting. Who ever my double is, he's a douchebag and I've inherited all the loose ends from his interrupted life. My guess: he's doing time somewhere. Lucky him.

You need to leave. Now.

I'm not a violent person. I'm also not a terribly brave or heroic person. If put in the position, I'd do every thing I could to avoid a serious confrontation or physical altercation.

That said, I've head butted mother fuckers for simply saying the wrong thing to me. I've also hurdled lunch tables and beat people senseless with their food trays.

I'm not proud of it, but it happens sometimes. My emotions occasionally and simply get the better of me. I can't say I'm ashamed, either. I have a very distinct and limited threshold for bullshit. Once you cross that line with me, there's no stopping me. Don't get me wrong - my tolerance level is insane. I have the patience of a Buddhist monk, except when I don't. It's those times that I'm completely reckless and dangerous.

I have alot of anger inside me - more than I'll ever be able to civilly express. I store that rage and use it to fuel my epic meltdowns. It's very power stuff. I may never be able to fully deplete my stockpile of mind-numbing devastation, which means I'll probably out live you all - especially if you piss me off. I could live for a century off the adrenaline from just one of these momentary lapses of self-control.

"Please, hit me. Lay a hand on me. Give me permission to return the favor. Please."

I should not be thinking those things. I should not be standing toe to toe with a 400+ pound man. I should be slightly more concerned about my personal well being and safety.

But, he shouldn't have made her cry. That sonuvabitch shouldn't have done that.

She's just barely 17. She's a girl. She might weigh 80 pounds soaking wet and holding my television. She's bawling her damned eyes out and shaking in such terror that she can't even wipe the snot from her nose.

There's a release valve in my heart and when I see that bullshit, it opens and every precious, horrible thing that I've been shoving in there and keeping locked away comes flying out. Suddenly, I'm bulletproof and insane. I can feel the blood in my veins begin to boil and every one of my muscles tighten. I hear myself saying things I'd expect to hear in a movie written by Stallone. I won't tell you the things I'm thinking about doing in that moment. I will never, never tell you that. You'd vomit. I have a miraculous imagination.

God help me if I ever have children of my own. God help the world, too.

On a normal day, there's no way I could come close to hurting this guy. But today, he's going to the fucking hospital and I might just carry him there myself.

Fortunately for everyone, the police in this area have excellent response time.