Well, none of this has anything to do with me, but I’ll give it a shot. Personally, I think defense mechanisms are for the weak, the bedwetter type. I might pee my pants when a custom’s launch suddenly appears out of nowhere and fires one off my bow, but that doesn’t really count because that‘s a perfectly natural reaction, not neurotic or anything, is it?
And punching a hole in the wall is just chickenshit. If somebody pisses me off, I punch them, not some fucking wall. It’s easier on the knuckles and I don’t know the first thing about drywall, anyway, other than it’s a pain in the ass. Punch the wall. That’s just fucking stupid. But don’t get me wrong, I really am a pretty nice guy, not really violent or anything. Well, not violent unless some motherfucker deserves it.
But not women. Women are different. If you’ve ever broke one’s jaw, even if she deserved it, you’d never hear the end of it. They can smart off all they want and get away with it, man. They can say shit no man could get away with, no man would even have the balls to say to another man. And they just fuck with your head like that. Then they go off and laugh about it with their little pissy girlfriends. Big fucking joke.
Like my wife. She’s such a bitch. It’s weird. The bitchier she gets, the more I want to buy her things. Can’t figure that one out. Fuck it. She’s good in bed, is good to our kids—so what’s there to figure out? Overthinking some things will just fuck things up even more sometimes. Everything’s cool.
That’s what the cat is for. I just kick that fucker every time Linda pisses me off. Therapy. His name is Ziggy, as in Sigmund, as in Freud. Little bastard keeps me out of jail. And it’s cool how that fucker always lands on his feet. I read once that a cat’s joints are loosely connected or something so they can withstand incredible falls and impacts. Amazing animals. That’s why I like cats. Fucking survivors. So, it really doesn’t hurt Ziggy when I kick him. It’s like that is what he’s made for. It’s his job. Anyway, he always comes back for food and then I make it up to him. When things cool down we have our quality time and I pet him, feeding him kibble. What a dumbass. Ziggy’s my bitch, ha ha.
Nah. None of this defense shit has anything to do with me. I’m as normal as everybody else I know. We all have our quirks, sure. Hell, look at the TV, the reality shows. Those people are batshit crazy next to me, Linda, and our friends. Hey, we have nice cars and live in neighborhoods with clean lawns. Not like some of those crazy assholes. I make good money. My kid is the star pitcher on his Little League team and my little girl brings home straight A’s. Linda’s got an ass on her you can bounce quarters off of. What do I need defense mechanisms for? Nobody can touch me. I got it all.