When we were in Chicago, eating at Gino’s, I was hunched over the salad staring at the dressing. It was an olive oil/white vinegar vinigrette, obviously, and I was looking at the spices suspended in it: that was obviously red pepper flakes, but that? Was that cayenne?

…and then WHAM! out of the blue: full-on fucking panic attack.

I finished chewing the bite of salad I had in my mouth, leaned back, and thought to myself, ‘Oh you’re funny, mister whacked-out nervous system.’ Thirty seconds later it was over, and I slammed a glass of water to help flush the adrenaline out of my system.

I wish I could describe what it feels like. One minute you’re just sitting there being a normal boring human being, and the VERY NEXT INSTANT you’re wired for sound. Your heart races, your feet and hands are slick with sweat, you’re tense, and you can feel adrenaline trickling into your bloodstream by the way it travels. Your whole body flushes, your muscles tense, and you feel FREAKED. THE. HELL. OUT.

Such a pain in the ass. And no one can even tell you’re in hell ’cause you look normal.

That was on Sunday. I had three more driving to work this morning, and two since I’ve been at work today. I finally went out to the jeep and jacked my head into my iPod and listened to this 9-minute panic eliminator track I have (which basically says, “Your nervous system is doing it, and you’re helping by being afraid of being afraid”). It helped.

But sometimes, honestly, I kinda want to swallow a big fat fucking sedative. This whole bio-feedback thing is just sooo responsible. Taking time out to soothe my physiology can be a total pain in the ass, and having to maintain a good goddamned attitude can be a pain in the ass too. Rar.

It’s probably a good thing I can’t have kids. Who’d want to have this shit passed on to them? Seriously! And if not this, then Brett’s lousy temper. (Snort.)