Vikings Don't Hit Rock Bottom
Sometimes life sucks and you just want to grab the nearest medieval weapon, pick up a shield and chomp down on it with your foaming mouth, and then go berserk. You could inflict some serious damage on your surroundings and if you're lucky enough to be alone at home at the time you could drastically increase your chances of getting successfully evicted, which would make a great bedtime story for the grandkids when you're older. Otherwise you could run around and scare people who would report you to the fuzz and you'd probably wind up in jail for the night or longer, possibly having to worry about fending off deviant human vultures from pecking away the dignity of your precious cornhole.
But for the Vikings themselves going berserk was an effective way of dealing with the bullshit that life threw at them. The ability to go berserk combined with their fatalistic attitude enabled them to laugh off their own misfortunes instead of moping about all day, and I respect that. In fact, I wish that I had gone berserk recently, but I didn't because:
A) I'm not a Viking and I usually fail to behave like one at every opportunity I get.
B) The phrase "going berserk" has unfortunately taken on negative connotations in recent times. It is a sad truth that if I were to have gone berserk, most people who heard about it would probably assume that I had obtained an illegal firearm and proceeded to mow down a bunch of people I don't even know and then shot myself. Such are the times we live in.
My own berserking inclinations were spurred on by one hell of a stretch of recent bad luck. In the last six months, there has been a death in the family, shortly after that I woke up one morning with a dead mouse in my bed, my godforsaken employer gave me the boot, and I started suffering from heart palpitations at an ever-increasing frequency, but the icing on the cake finally came when my girlfriend of five years broke up with me over email on the same day that some assholes stole the tires and rims off my car. Sure, things could always be worse, I mean, as one extreme example, I'm lucky that I don't live in Darfur, but come on, what the fuck?
So, getting back to the former girlfriend. Let's call her Thokk. This is an appropriate name because it implies extreme callousness, misguidedness, and betrayal, characteristics which, along with rampant emotional insecurity, may be partially or wholly attributed to a distraught early childhood courtesy of a cruel father. To Thokk's credit, she at least informed me of her "concerns" in person before ending it over email a couple of days later. It was eerily similar to that break up scene from Good Will Hunting, except I was the girl, which doesn't do much for my self image. But much like Minnie Driver, I was just sitting there wondering what the hell had led to this mess, while Thokk channeled the spiritual vexation of Matt Damon's character out on me, getting so caught up in the outpouring of her own emotional insecurities that she failed to even realize that that's what she was doing. I can't say I liked them apples, but whatever she thinks will make her happy, I guess.
The guys who towed my vehicle were cool, though.* They assured me that it was the Puerto Ricans who were responsible for my automotive troubles, which was good because, as history has shown time and again, being able to blame your woes on an entire nationality or ethnicity always helps with the grieving process. And I really loved those fucking tires.
*Towing the car instead of putting rims and tires on it at the scene was an executive decision made by dirty insurance bastards.