“Displaced anxiety” is a Freudian concept; it refers to what happens when people project or deflect their issues onto something irrelevant – something safer.
We put the people we respect up on a pedestal and we strip them of any qualities that we deem to be unvirtuous.
I probably never passed the oral stage, but most therapists tend to get stuck in the anal stage.
It rarely happens in the same place twice, but Joe Pesci is always there, and it always ends with him viciously assaulting me.
When kindred wails, it is our evolutionary impulse to go nearer, as if to choose between saving them, or getting a better view of their demise by which to commemorate them.
America was built on an ethos more severe than just “work now, play later.” Rather, our culture has roots in a philosophy of “work now, play when you die.”
Refusing to be crippled, I decided to face my fears head on with a method that analysts like Freud would call, “conditioning.” I listened to old mix-tapes, read old love letters, even saw Blue Valentine in theaters. And you know what? I survived.
I exposed those needy cravings unabashedly and without censor – straight from the knuckle-dragging frat boy Id that inhabits each of us.
In a “real world” non-cartoon context, Beavis would likely have been prescribed a stimulant (Adderall, Ritalin) for his ADHD, maybe coupled with a mood stabilizer (Xanax, Lithium) and even an anti-psychotic (Seroquel).
Lacan: “You probably can’t understand anything I say.”