John said it. I didn’t. Sometimes you have to put on your headphones, turn up some loud shit, and go fuck yourself up for a while. This is a solo affair, masturbatory and masochistic at the same time. Purgative. Cathartic.
What is it?
Despite my best intentions, my moods get the better of me, irritability on the tip of my tongue, rage between my ears. Maybe I didn’t sleep well. Maybe people want more from me than I have to give, and in my constant need for their approval, I’ve overextended. It happens. Keep everybody happy. If it kills you.
These things are no one’s fault.
They don’t require conflict to resolve. I don’t need to talk it out. These moments just call for an album full of screaming and angular guitars, an elevated heart rate, both turned to 11 or 12 if you’ve got it. And about an hour of heavy time.
That’s the tinder.
Then you step back and spray lighter fluid on it from not quite far enough away. Get dumb. Get reckless. Overextend yourself and claw your way back. Sweat the toxins. Burn off the bilious vapors.
This isn’t every run, or even one in ten, but sometimes I have to.