Does happiness exist when the definition remains unknown and is not figured into one’s life equation? Especially if there’s no guarantee complete jovial solace will occur in your skin/ mental asylum. These points are usually backed up by a mental disability or imbalance where perception is altered and all shortcomings and failures are brought to the surface. When most see the good in you it takes all your strength forgetting those past failures and inadequacies. It doesn’t take much convincing or self doubt that the public is looking thru the wrong lenses and that a pair of “they live” glasses is needed to see the true head case/ monster lurking inside. The mere thought of a compliment triggers a noxious anxiety driven dry heave and excuses are made to take your internal self esteem down a few pegs. Outward displays of enthusiasm, passion, and emotions annoy a large part of your brain. The public is well versed in my speeded consumption of gross looking foods yet any outlying excitement and fire is not acceptable. Any mental state besides the current is the one I strive for. Desperate attempts are made at repairing a short circuit where feelings of inadequate educationally n emotionally, but some motherboards are fried.
I’m an emotional streaker where all it takes is a cooler full of blatz to transform a somber wallflower into a coked up stripper dishing out her real name, number of kids or source of that ungodly abdomen scar. How is it possible to conquer the mind yet struggle to exceed the minimum mental height requirements? Eating 14 lbs of jalapenos is cake but a white collar cocktail party can lead to an international incident.
I binge on all things emotional and tangible and purge them up with 15 gin and tonics. The desire is some sort of flat lining of emotions but it’s something unachievable and may not be something I want, anything to level the extremes in life would do. Normal is something I’ve never embodied, ever since I out grew the growth charts at 9. They say the most fucked up are borderline brilliant, I border instability so where does that leave me? Normalcy is questioned and pondered and leads to insanity, but why is it that every time bottom is hit it’s all I crave, anything to level out. When the internal volume of shortcoming and past embarrassments reach insanity the bottle or any mind altering distraction is used to settle the boat and offer a temporary escape from a cruel chemically unbalanced brain. And the next day includes drunken déjà vu/ flashback where the questions of “I can’t believe I said/did that” are asked periodically, only mounting the building catalogue of crippling embarrassment.
There’s a series of valleys and mountain tops of emotion, with each downward turn I burrow deeper and deeper on a quest for answers and interpersonal wisdom.
With each wrinkle in my brain of acquired knowledge my soul is left calloused and smoldering from the repeated slash and burnings. Perhaps it’s the downs that make the ups more magical and memorable. Just like McDonalds lowering your burger palate so when a fresh ground 4×4 animal is consumed it’s orgasmic. But it’s an erie feeling when your head and well being is in the clouds and know the drop is near and some internal
a-hole is waiting in the wings to pull you by the ankles down into a 50 foot crater. If the crash was caused from the death of a loved one it would be understandable but if this cycle continues to repeat itself for no reason it can grate down even a mental giant.
This mind wonders what will happen when the eater formerly known as deep dish eats it on a slice of pizza like Mama Cass via grilled cheese sandwich. Will everyone have gotten “me”? Or will it be like me trying to explain my penchant for out skirted heroes/ idols. Will a ten minute conversation be needed to explain why I loved girl talk books, Charles Bronson, and mariachi bands? Or more importantly why I was cremated and mixed with gold bond medicated powder so when used on male parts and that sweet sweet burn is felt they will think of deep dish bertoletti.
This in a nut shell is what deep dish bertoletti is all about. The Crude Goldberg machine south of the Mohawk is an anxiety particle accelerator and these are mere observations and answers to give some insight into the one they call patricio pollo loco deep dish bertoletti.