Reset Password
Reset Link Sent
| Blogs > ThomBombadil > Vs. The World. |
You Can't Take Me Anywhere Nice or (The Unexpected Virtue of Fear)
|
You Can't Take Me Anywhere Nice or (The Unexpected Virtue of Fear) Ok kiddos. Story time. Where have I been? What have I been doing? Nevermind all that. However, we will be delving into the emotional ramifications of what exactly it is I’ve been doing since, like, forever ago. So, a week or so ago, I was at a popular horror movie. I had already seen it once, but the first time I saw this movie, it was on a date that has become one of the best bad date stories of my recent years. More on that later. On this particular instance, I was with a different date. Yeah, I’m poly these days. Try to keep up. Anydangedways, I was at this movie. It was in a nicer part of town, though the particular theatre was not one of the more upscale ones. I’d reckon that this particular theatre catered to those residents of this part of LA that hadn’t quite been gentrified out. Yes, I live in LA now. You want me to tell this story or not? So I was saying, this particular movie theatre, it wasn’t filled with the most upscale clientele. I’m not complaining or making any other statement on that, just providing context. So, in this dimly lit room that smells vaguely of buttered popcorn and vomit, I am watching this popular horror movie with this girl that I am seeing. And it’s a good horror movie with a good girl (who often gets off on me saying those very words, but I digress) and I should be having a good time. But I am not having a good time. I am not having a good time at all. Because in the row directly behind me there is a moviegoer’s bane. The arch nemesis of moviegoers everywhere: The Talker. This is no ordinary talker. This talker, he does not speak in a quiet voice. He does not whisper little bits of trivia in his date’s ear. He does not talk to the screen, warning the on-screen characters to beware the dangers that lurk just over their shoulders. No, this is a full voice talker going on about nonsense shit and little bits of scuttlebutt about whatever asshole friend this asshole talker has into the ear of the young lady sitting next to him. A young lady who is constantly shushing him and pleading with him to lower his voice because he is absolutely and without a doubt the most inconsiderate ass in the urban sprawl that is Los Angeles. At least he is at this moment. I’m sure if we put some thought into it we could come up with a few people in LA’s history who might have been slightly more inconsiderate. But only a few. Now I’m a patient man these days. I’ve learned quite a bit in the last couple of years about taking my time, relaxing and letting things slide. I’ve become a trainer for all sorts. Cats. Dogs. Employees. Subservient girlfriends. I know that from time to time people or things can become incredibly frustrating, but it’s best to keep your cool and work through your problems. However, there is only so much a moviegoer can take when it comes to the evil machinations of The Talker. The Talker can push even Gandhi to violence. The world hates the movie talker. So about 45 minutes in after The Talker had a particularly energetic and loud moment concerning something some “bitch” he was working with had said to him, I acted. I did the slow turn, my face painstakingly making the trip 90 degrees to the right, my mouth turned down, my eyebrows at deliberate 60 degree angles above my eyes. That’s right, I gave him a sharp look of disapproval. His immediate response was humor. He honestly thought my carefully choreographed head and neck only dance of loathing was some amount of a joke. So I held my gaze. I looked deep into his soul to let him know just how much I disapproved of his behavior, and by golly I meant every second of that stare. In most cases (because there have been a few), The Stare of Disapproval (trademarked by me, 2017) is all it takes. Usually people clam up immediately, sometimes they apologise. Occasionally someone will get belligerent for a moment, but typically they quiet down after. Be insulted all you want, just be quiet. This was not The Talker’s reaction. As I continued glaring at him, projecting my disgust into the deepest parts of his core essence, a funny thing happened. The Talker did not clam up, he did not apologise, he did not get belligerent but still immediately shut his stupid fucking mouth. Instead of any of these normal and dare I say reasonable responses, The Talker Lost. His. Motherfucking. Mind. “WHAT BITCH?” he screamed into the dim room packed with casual moviegoers who were probably just as irritated as I was with him. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU STARIN’ AT?” The Talker leapt up out of his seat as he was shouting. “WHAT, MOTHERFUCKER? I’LL FUCK YOU UP. THIS IS [insert random local gang here] TERRITORY”. I recall thinking at this last oh-so-witty quip, ‘Sure it is, and if I see one of them, I’ll do the same to them’. However I didn’t say that. In the heat of the moment, the only thing I said was, “Are you fucking serious?” Because honestly, who the fuck does this? Who the fuck is so rash and stupid? Who has such a fragile ego that instead of recognising, ‘Oh. Of course. I am attending the cinema. I am surrounded by common citizens who have paid the price of admittance to have a pleasant evening with a friend or loved one in peace. I should carry myself accordingly and act in the utmost politeness for the sake of the public of which I am a member of’, they fly off the fucking handle and try to incite violence with a random stranger? Who the fuck honestly does that? The Talker does that. That’s who. As The Talker came charging out of his row at towards mine, tearing off his hoodie in a fashion stereotypical to the common street scrapper. I still cannot be certain what he expected to come of this. Did he think I would meekly apologise, back down, turn around? Did he think I would sit there and let him hit me? What was his end goal here? These questions will go unanswered, for as he rounded the corner I immediately raised out of my seat. I am no small man. I am 6’3”, 245 lbs of flab that was once muscle. I know I am an intimidating presence. Once, while performing a chauvinistic and physically violent role in a college theatre production (hold your questions for the end please) I made a 20 year old in the audience cry. I am a scary looking guy. Upon realizing this, The Talker appeared instantly regret to his tactic, though his ego would clearly not allow him to show it. He continued shouting threats and obscenities at me as I advanced, backing up the aisle towards the door. And as he did he reached into the front of his waistband and pulled out something. Two things happened when he did this; or rather one thing happened and one thing did not. I cannot be sure if what he had pulled out was a knife or a gun- it was too dark. But regardless, the thing that did not happen was this- I did not react. I did not react to a weapon. I did nothing when a weapon was presented. I am at odds with this. On the one hand, I am angry at myself. In the past I have every bit of faith that I would have reacted quickly and with unmatchable fury. I look back at past me and I wonder if I could have restrained myself from taking his weapon and killing him with it. It would have been an easily justifiable killing- if he was willing to pull a weapon, he was willing to use it, and I could not take the risk of him regaining control and using his weapon to hurt me or others. His pulling a weapon would have forced my hand and I have every confidence that no jury would have convicted me. Let it be known that it’s not the “not killing” I’m angry at myself with, it’s the “not reacting”. On the other hand, I’m somewhat disturbed. Not reacting to a weapon may have confirmed a suspicion I have held since the cataclysmic moment that ultimately drove me from DC to LA- a moment that I refer to as “THE SUNDERING” and that we may revisit another day and time. I suspect that since THE SUNDERING that I have simply stopped giving a shit about my health, safety, or continued existence. I wouldn’t say that I am suicidal, just that I don’t care. And if The Talker was going to come at me with his weapon, then that was just fine with me. Though rest assured that if he didn’t kill me, I was most certainly going to kill him. Fortunately (for him or for me, I’m not sure), that second thing happened. And that second thing was that as The Talker was backing up the aisle, he walked into a waist high railing and flipped backwards ass over elbows. In retrospect it was absolutely hilarious to see this wannabe gangbanger fall flat on his back, spitting impotent venom the whole time. In the moment of course I was only focused on being intimidating, a tactic that was clearly working well. He hit the ground with a dull thud and the weapon fell from his hand, glimmering in the light bouncing off the movie screen. Again, I did nothing. As he lie there on the ground, backing towards the door on his hands slinging empty threat after empty threat, his date began pulling at his arm, urging him to go. With one last string of obscenities, he grabbed his weapon and bolted out the door. Victorious, I returned to my seat. “Fuckin’ poser”, said one of the young men in the row directly behind me. Fuckin’ poser indeed. I found it difficult to enjoy the rest of the film. I turned to look at every noise behind me, in case The Talker decided to barge back in and try to take me off guard. I wondered if he might be lying in wait outside, maybe with a group of friends to avenge his bruised ego. At one point the anxiety got the better of me and I had to take a break disguised as a trip to the men’s room. My date was not fooled, but it wasn’t her I was trying to convince that all was well. Was it worth it, to incite a ’s pathetic fury for the sake of a movie. Fucking yes it was worth it. I will always call people out when they are being shitty, damn the consequences. I wish I had something more to wrap this up with, but I think I already blew my philosophical wad way back on the idea that there is something intrinsically wrong with me these days, even if I’m presenting myself ostensibly as a well put together human being. It’s not quite that I’ve lost my will to live, but more like I’ve just become apathetic to the whole affair. I’ve no interest in taking my own life, but I have little interest in protecting it either. I’ve mused that this may be a consequence of the extremity of self loathing brought on by The Sundering- when you hate yourself, you have a unique power. You can do anything that anyone else is afraid to do, because you have no interest in self preservation. I think if that’s the case, I’m underutilizing my powers. Maybe I should consider becoming a mercenary? That might be cool. Til next time. PS. I’m posting this without proofreading. I know, I’m terrible. Please mind the errors in grammar, syntax, and spelling. Hopefully I’ll correct them all later. "Everything in moderation, including moderation" - Oscar Wilde |
||||
|
I think most people go through a phase where they feel as you are describing; not necessarily suicidal but not feeling like protecting the body they are in. This is problematic, but totally fixable. But you have to WANT to fix that. Some people are perfectly content to stay in this phase. The more important question here is DO YOU want to fix it? Ah but you need only to think on this, not answer. One of my kinks is knowing that I don't need the answers to the questions I ask, Kitkat PS welcome back from your last oblivion The observant make the best lovers, I may not do right, but I do write, I have bliss, joy, and happiness in my life, Kitkat Come check out my blog KItkat1415 check out this post by me Adventures In Body Grooming #39 April Topic Link: What Lies Beneath If April Showers Oh Bloody Hell What Kind Of Weather Turns Me On Bloggers Symposium 40
|
Become a member to create a blog
