Running on empty

It’s becoming very clear to me that each and every day of my life I’m becoming a worse person.

This change may not be noticeable to some because it has happened very gradually and it mostly all takes place in my head. But since I’m stuck with myself every day, it’s impossible for me to miss the signs: I am becoming a big, giant jerk.

If I was ever a decent, nice human being (which is really, quite doubtful) I most definitely am not one any more.

It’s become painfully clear to me that I have simply used up all my nice.

The way I figure it, I was given a set dose of kindness and patience at birth and I’ve simply used it all up. There is not an ounce of nice left. There is not a pound of patience to be found. Zip, zilch, nada. Don’t go looking for nice here, we’re all sold out.

This is absolutely in no way my fault, well at least not current me fault. This is the fault of little girl Ashley who selfishly wasted all of my nice like it was no big deal.

Believe it or not, I’m told I was once a nice person. Surprising, I know.

As a youth, I had untold patience. I was getting whiplash from always “turning the other cheek.” In short, I was basically a goody-two-shoes, little angel, who let’s face, was probably really annoying.

I’m not making  this up, I’m 98 percent sure I could get some parental backup on this.

As a child, and well, also as an adult, I’ve always been annoyed by one of the best. Yes, I have been blessed with a younger brother whose annoying skills are off the charts. He can pester and aggravate and irritate with the best of them. Honestly, aside from Andy Dick or Glenn Beck, I really don’t know who could do it better. (And they’re professionals for God’s sake).

From the very start, my brother knew just how to get on my nerves. With his creativity and tenacious approach to irritation, there was simply no stopping him. Reasoning with him never worked. Beating him up was ordinarily out of the question, since my little  brother has been bigger than me for longer than I care to admit. Tattling was pointless. So I had one option left, I could ignore him. Which is exactly what I attempted to do with all my juvenile might.

I’m told my patience was once unmatched. I could take getting poked in the arm for hours. I could stand there with his little hand an inch from my face (because apparently this is more annoying than actually punching someone in the face) for prolonged periods of time. And each and every time, I would simply attempt to wait him out.  Like a little, blonde-pig-tailed Gandi, I would passively resist like nobody’s business.

But then in an arguably, un-Gandhi-like move, I would eventually snap. I would scream, I would shout, I would yell obscenities I learned from HBO. I would have a full-scale freakout. And then my brother would start bugging me again and the vicious cycle of agitation and patient endurance would continue.

And that’s how it happened folks, over two decades of this has simply used up my nice and my patience. I’m all tapped out of the “sugar and spice and everything nice” around here.

At least, that’s the validation I can come up with as to why I suddenly keep getting the urge to throw things in certain people’s certain stupid faces – see, told ya, how mean was that, right?