All the Small Things

As one gets older year by year and hence closer to the inevitability that is death, one thinks that one MIGHT be able to take great pleasure in spending time with one's contemporaries. But one's contemporaries are just as likely to be as different from you as anyone else so you can't count on that.
I've got friends who read this blog every day and that's all the contact they need from me apparently. I don't get emails or phone calls. I don't even know why I have a cell phone frankly. It never rings.
People wonder why I'm hostile. I guess it's a cyclical thing. I'm hostile because I can't seem to get the very least that other people have and take for granted and I can't get those things because I'm hostile.
I get these cracks on my fingers along my knuckles that turn red and bleed. I'm sure it's something common... and disgusting... like chapping or impetigo. But I imagine it's the rage I feel on a daily basis purging itself out through my fingers ... especially now that I'm off anti-depressants. Anti-depressants, more than anything, kept my anger at bay by allowing me to turn off the running thoughts process that kept me obsessing over that little irritant, like a hangnail, that just wouldn't go away. I'm on a low boil, my frustration at medium. Now, free and clear of drugs, I get angry and stay that way for a few days. It's hard on the old psyche and the body. It's exhausting.