Oi. Maybe it’s the holiday season, and maybe it’s who-knows-what, but I am writing just to complain about PTSD and the fact that apparently my brain is in one of those states where any time I achieve the tiniest bit of relaxation, some little gnome downstairs is like YOU ALMOST LET YOUR GUARD DOWN! IF YOU STOP LOOKING FOR HYAENAS THE HYAENAS ARE SURE TO EAT YOU!
And then he just mashes the adrenaline button and the next thing I know I am pointless fucking bundle of heart palpitations and anxiety symptoms.
And I mean golly gee, dude, not only are there NO FUCKING HYAENAS, but even if there were hyaenas, they wouldn’t be automatically SUMMMONED by the letting down of one’s guard. There is no magical property of worrying about shit that superstitiously keeps the bad things from happening.
Lay off the button, gnome. This endocrine response isn’t doing anybody any favors.
Anyway, PTSD is a pile of doodoo and if you, like me, suffer from it, just take this moment to remember that it’s not you, really. It’s that little fucker in the basement mashing that adrenaline button like it was his only job in the world.
Happy fucking holidays.