Today I woke up a little pissed. And there’s no justifiable reason that I’m aware of.

— but boy, did it help me write.

Some days, my innate propensity to be angry and complain about everything is gut-wrenching, even to a billy goat in a refugee camp.

I got up a few minutes ago and started banging away on my overpriced MacBook Air to capture the raw emotions of my state in the hopes of making three cents (you read right) on Medium. I don’t want to pay thousands of dollars to host my own site (when I had one), which never got traffic except from spambots, and Facebook is evil.

There’s a small tear in my couch, and my neck is sore (see, I told you I’m pissed). I’m sad, grateful, cranky and confused about the world.

And why?

“After all, I’m a dominant (not really, but don’t tell anyone) man of perceived privilege and live better than 98 percent of the planet that I’m supposedly destroying every time I wipe my butt hole with a handy-wipe; mother Earth, forgive me!” ~ Daniel-Ibrahim

And, according to the cancel culture folks, I’m personally responsible for all the world’s oppression because I was conceived as a white, Roman Catholic, middle-class (when there was one) Fag in Canada. (I’m allowed to call myself that because I am)

And my dad drove a big-ass Cadillac in the ’80s (it got 10 miles to the gallon back then), but at least my first blissful sexual experience was in a tent on a camping trip with a guy named Mike — it’s been downhill since.

And by 2040, I’ll likely be dribbling in a three-day-old diaper as the prophesied apocalypse takes me out of my misery before my self-indulgent dreams come true. So — go figure… who cares… I’m still the centre of the universe.

“Maybe I need Prozac or something?”

Right now, you’re muttering about wanting to give me a severe attitude adjustment — WHACK!!

Tomorrow, I might hop out of bed at the other end of the spectrum. I’ll feel peace, joy and appreciation for what I have. I won’t be confused because I’ll focus on the good in people and what’s right in the world. Instead, the back of my neck will tingle with joy and goosebumps, and I’ll be on the verge of blissful tears, staring at the sunrise from my penthouse view — drinking another black coffee.

“Oh, Allah, am I bipolar?”

Am I turning into a cranky older man who sounds like a bitter lesbian or uptight drag queen? (respect)

I got up five minutes ago, sat butt naked on my couch (fu@k exercise, I just got out of bed), started downing my super strong black coffee and chose to dance in my messy head (along with one flea — I think) — — pondering about what should have, could have, would have, gonna, might and won’t.

As I dawn, another skid mark is on my sofa (I’m the only one who sits there anyway).

The adrenal rush from my self-induced fight/flight response to my daemons, combined with caffeine, is almost as good as crack! (I never tried, but I can twerk as well as that pitiful soul at the bus shelter)

I know this… as I tap into my brain’s illogical blob. Whatever shit show is happening upstairs, deep down, my heart is good and in the right place. It means I’m alive and processing shit. — and you?

Once my coffee kicks in and I pinch a good loaf, I will have squeezed the emotional crap (metaphorically speaking) out of my system.

Writing helps…..

Everything I just wrote is LITERALLY and factually what was happening in my head.

I can type, think and feel in real time. — Have I arrived as a creative writer?

Sadly, I’ve captured only a nanosecond of the Aurora borealis in my noggin! — plenty more where that came from.

Yes, mamma, I’m writing before your super fan eyes.

How fucking wild is that, my fluffy pal?

“And oddly, I don’t fear publishing my morning loaf because it’s damn funny, and I just gave a shit! (literally and metaphorically) — last pooh joke, I promise!”

But, no worries, a little later, I’ll write a stoic, business-like, productivity, strategist piece of typical vomit… though sadly, it wouldn’t make my three cents, so what’s the point — — get my point?

Oh, Buddha, am I attached to the wrong things and fussed over mortal trivia?

Am I ungrateful and need my guardian angel to call me out (again)?

Oh, wait, online says I’m suffering from a mild form of PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder because I watch too much CNN(that’ll do it) — minus the flashbacks — those could only come from the acid I took in my 20s back in the 80s, and I was never in Vietnam — so remove that one from my list of oppressions.

My symptoms: I had a weird dream seconds before waking up of being on a date with a female colleague — hardly a trauma for my gay brain. And other than overwatering one of my plants, why the anxiety?

But I do have uncontrollable thoughts about events and life in general. — who doesn’t?!

“Uncontrollable because I suffer from an overly creative personality, above average IQ and EQ (intelligence quotient, emotional intelligence), I ooze empathy and am profoundly disappointed in my fellow humans (and myself).”

If I’m a tad confused, it’s because, on a more realistic level, life is fucking excellent, people are superheroes, and the future is looking darn good for my man and me!

Mmmm, what’s going on?!

You tell me!

“FYI: Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety, and uncontrollable thoughts about the event. — and I don’t SUFFER FROM IT… I’m just overly creative.”