I don’t have much direct control over my mood. I can only observe it; I can only watch as external forces push it this way and that. I know where I want it to go next, but it never goes there.
It’s as though my life is an awful movie. The script is boring, the direction is awkward, and the actor playing me has no idea what he’s doing. He can’t act for shit.
I watch him and I’m filled with a rage and frustration that I have no healthy way of releasing. I want to shout at the screen, but all I do is clench and unclench my fists like a crazy person.
Every few scenes, though, I reach a breaking point. I’m just too annoyed. I have to say something. I turn to the person in the seat next to me, and I scoff.
“This guy is unbelievable,” I tell her. “Even I could do a much better job than this dumbass.”
And then I realize: oh yeah, the seat next to me is empty.
The hell with this, I think. I’m leaving. I get up and walk briskly and decisively to one of the exits in the back, but it’s sealed off. I try the other three; they’re sealed off too. I’m alone in this theater. It’s just me and the screen, baby. I get the vague feeling that this isn’t the first time I’ve made this discovery.
I go back to my seat. I sit down. I forget I’m alone, until I remember again.
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