When the World Tips Over

Today, I fucking lost it.

A guy came into the store asking about a 400 small block Chevy. I looked up a '70 Impala with one. I asked a simple, necessary question: was it a 2-barrel or 4-barrel carb? Because it matters. It changes the head gaskets. It’s not just some minor detail—it changes the part entirely.

He didn’t like me asking. He started puffing up, saying he’s been building engines for 30 years, and that all 400s are the same. But they’re not. They are not the same.

I tried to show him on the screen, tried to walk him through the difference, but then he started yelling. And that’s when everything shut down. My body. My brain. Too loud. Too close. Too fast. I blacked out.

I don’t remember what happened next.

Mikey told me I screamed at the guy. Told him to fucking leave. Told him to get out of the store. I don’t remember that part. I don’t even remember being able to speak. But I guess I did, because apparently I stormed off, punched a radiator, and shoved a tool cart into the wall on my way out the back door.

I came to outside. Just… blank space where the memories should be.

And now I feel like I scared people. Like I scared me. I hate this. I hate how my brain does this. I hate that I can’t control it when it tips over like that. It’s like—I’m here, and then I’m just... gone. And when I come back, there’s wreckage I have to clean up.

I was trying to do my job. Trying to be exact. Trying to help. And now I feel like a problem. A liability. Like I don’t belong around people.

I wish I could explain to everyone what that moment felt like from the inside.

I wish I didn’t have to.