Destruction Therapy

Haven’t written in a while. Not because nothing’s been going on- quite the contrary. Between working with dinosaur robots, editing vacation photo’s (I’m at #600, about halfway) and wedding photo’s (Another couple hundred), fixing friends’ computers, demolishing homes and cursing myself for my lack of Emotional Intelligence (More on that later. Maybe.) I simply don’t have the time to sit down and summarize what’s been going on. Granted, I am doing so now, but it’s 4 in the morning and I have another busy day tomorrow- I’m working on borrowed time.

So here’s some shit in a nutshell:

  • I subscribed to a course as a stage technician. It’s one of the most prestigious (and exclusive) courses in Belgium of around one year and I seriously fucking hope I get accepted.
  • More voluntary work. A friend asked me to help him renovate his house, so I do- in between “real” work.
  • What else… Oh right, went to Norway for 10 days with the guys. Nice place, but we knew that. Lotsa rocks and blondes.
  • Photography is coming along well. I am never satisfied with my pictures but when I check them again at a later time, I have to admit they’re getting rather good. I was thinking of buying me a hard drive, but I might just buy me a whole new fucking computer- this one just doesn’t cut it. But I got time.
  • I bought a book on basic philosophy because I feel like I’m losing touch. I need input and I’m not going to get it from the streets anymore. I don’t think I ever bought a book before and read it…
  • More below.



The act of destruction, I am absolutely certain, is more therapeutic than any talking session or even meds. And I can know, I had all three. The simple destruction, preferably of something bigger, older, stronger, and more beautiful than myself, flushes negative emotion like nothing else can.

I’m not sure why that is. Is it the urge to feel strong- physically if not mentally? Could it be the release of a darker side of us? I think it might be the latter, but I can only speak for myself.
Lately, I’ve had the opportunity to beat, kick and hammer the shit out of a house that is being renovated. And with all the conflict going on lately, it has proven to be an effective way to vent. There is something about watching things break- something soothing. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

And it’s only just physical property, right? It stops being fun when people’s emotions are involved or when somebody hurts himself. In that figurative sense, it’s a pretty narrow situation that really does the trick. But whether it’s cars (holy shit I’d love to kill me one of those), walls or small objects, the “fuck yeah” feeling you get when tearing it apart is usually worth building it in the first place.



If fate was a woman (what else), she would have one dry fucking sense of irony. By the way:

Ironic – Characterized by often poignant difference or incongruity between what is expected and what actually is; "Madness, an ironic fate for such a clear thinker"; "It was ironic that the well-planned scheme failed so completely".

I hate it when people use the term “irony” for “sarcasm”.

Irony. As in: “It is ironic that my old and new life would clash so violently during the celebration of a close friend’s wedding.” Get it?
Since we broke up, my ex and I (I should write “ex” with a capital so everyone knows who I’m talking about) haven’t seen each other for more than a couple hours. Two awkward evenings at a café to see if we might get along, in almost two years now. And then suddenly, we are shoved on the same dance floor for two consecutive nights.

There’s no telling how much I’ve changed since I left her. No man could go through what I did back then without changing fundamentally. So when I get to see her again after all this time, it’s with different eyes, and what I find confuses the shit out of me.
Oh yes, the tension was there- thick as pea soup. Suddenly, everything either of us said seemed to have an unintentional sexual undertone and to my amazement, the reflex of grabbing her was still there, once or twice almost completely escaping my guard.

But we were good. Hello, how are you, well bye, see you around. Mwah. On the cheek.
That little shitscoop of a boyfriend of hers seemed to disagree. He didn’t pitch probably because he knew I would be there, and instead spent his time moping at home (for the record, I promised myself to behave- it was still my friend’s wedding). The first thing I saw her do that night was roll her eyes, as she arrived after a big fight at his place. Apparently, that little weasel is so insecure about his excuse for a relationship, that he collapses and cries about it at the first thought of she and I spending an evening in one room. I interpret this as the information that his cock is significantly smaller than mine (just like all of him, by the way).

And don’t get me wrong, I totally would. I’d walk in, take her out of his bed and fuck her in front of him just to show that he’s a bitch. The issue is that I need her to do that, and she’s the only one in this picture that I care enough about. Yes, still. I don’t think that will ever change. He would probably be too guilt-ridden to break up with her too, because that’s right, he cost her her seven-year relationship and ditto sex life with his little pecker. It’s got to be tough trying to live up to that. Here’s a hint: Crying doesn’t help.

It’s juvenile, I know, but damnit does it feel good. Where was I.
Yeah yeah, it’s all behind me. I moved on since, and I managed to prove it that same night. Awkward as it might have been, I really am kind of proud of myself. As I stated before, when history repeats itself, it is that much easier to see the progress you made. And have I ever made progress.
If fate were indeed a woman, she would totally dig me.



There’s more that I want to write, but I need to sleep. I really do miss it, this “ditching” of ideas and memories. More to come.


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