Rule Number One Is Don't Be A Dick.

I have this part of me that I need to kill. Literally murder, with no mercy. Annihilate, even.

I want it gone as soon as possible.

It's a trait I believe I inherited, but I'm gonna stop right there before you think I'm writing one of "those" kind of rants. Small, stupid mammals are going to ape the behavior of the larger, older ones in an attempt to understand/cope with social situations and the larger world around them. That's just how things work, and to assign blame is useless and kinda stupid.

In any case, there's no fixing the fact that I'm an annoying smart-ass. Despite what you may say contrary, there's not much wrong with that. It's inherently harmless. The circuit I want to dislodge is the one that compels me to push things to the level of pedantic and absurd hyper-dickery.

Me: "I say the bread will land butter side down!"
You: "I say the bread will land butter side up!"
Me: "[insert insanely inappropriate, embarrasingly personal remark by which I infer that you have yet to even earn the right to have an opinion on bread or butter, bitch.]"

And then I cross my my arms as if I've won the argument, when in reality I've just made myself look like an ultra-douche.

I justified it when I was a teenager as a trait of being "punk rock" or whatever. I've made excuses for it a million ways, but I'm done with that.

In my favor, I am much more in control of it than I was. However, it still happens, and it's still there. I want it gone; I'm conviced now I will never be able to have sane, stable, meaningful interaction with anybody until I'm fixed.

I've considered seeking the advice of a professional. However, I already know what the problem is and I know what the roots of it are. Wouldn't that be the same as going to a mechanic to get your oil changed? Or is my reluctance to speak to a professional just me being stubborn?

Maybe I should just accept that this is a process, and that I can't be "fixed". I don't know anymore.