I don’t know who I am and I’m fifty years old. In other words, I don’t want to be who I am, though the pin’s in, as it were. That descending Google Maps pin, “that thing where” it lands with a pulsing circle of living jelly around it, ready to go go go, watch yourself move, drive, be on the route you’re supposed to be on. It’s dropped on me here. This is where it will continue to drop from now on. Right in the middle of my life, which is actually more like the two-thirds point if I’m lucky enough to live to 75. I feel that is true.
I am a function. In mathematical terms. I don’t rule; I am a rule, like y=2x. Give me any input and the output will be the same. Or the same thing will happen to the input. What is this rule that you are? I don’t know. It would be easy to say that I turn anything to shit or that I make things only to shit on them.
But, with addiction and so-called addictive behaviors, the action is even less dramatic. The input is so specific: x=beer. Why (sorry) = x/1.