I Don't Want to Complain...

I had a little time on my hands this weekend, so, in an effort to make myself useful, I invented a new mental illness. I guess I didn't really invent it as much as I identified it. That sounds like the term they'd use down at the Mental Health Association offices.
It's a mental illness with which I have contended for years, except, until this weekend, I didn't realize it was a mental thing. I just thought I had a bad disposition. I'm calling this condition Chronic Complaint Syndrome. It manifests itself by causing the sufferer (me, being the first sufferer identified) to complain about virtually everything from his own health to television newscasters, to virtually every action of every individual with whom said sufferer comes in contact.
What I've come to realize, is that I don't want to complain. I try not to complain. But, alas, my condition forces me into doing so. That makes sense when you analyze it, which is what I've been doing. Why would anyone want to be a complainer. I don't enjoy being around complainers, and I'm really not proud of myself when I complain. So, it must be something over which I have little or no control. I complain because of CCS (Chronic Complain Syndrome, for those with very short memories).
I complain about aches and pains in my own body. They're not fantasy pains, but intellectually, I realize that no one, especially my wife, wants to hear my constant belly-aching. I complain about the stupidity of other people. Again, the stupidity is real, but common sense should tell me the shut up about it. The thing is, as I've discovered, CCS is stronger than common sense. I can sit there and tell myself not to complain, but then the CCS takes over.
I'm thinking that now that you know about my condition, you'll actually come to love me even more than you already do. I could say I don't want your pity, but truth be known, I really do want it. If I can get by with more complainng because you pity me, then, by all means, pity me.
At least understand me. Understand that when I'm complaining incessantly, I have no more control over my condition (CCS), than that guy in a coma has on his. Just as you wouldn't dare ask the man in the iron lung to crawl out of his lung, or the woman with prickly heat to stop scratching, you shouldn't expect me to stop complaining.
I'm know that the Mental Health gurus will want to study my findings a little more closely, and, sure they're gonna be really ticked (if you know what I mean) that a rank amateur discovered this thing, but at the end of the day, I'm kinda thinking this CCS thing will come to be known as Cook's Syndrome.
Wouldn't that be a hoot? Just imagine fifty years from now, somebody is in a restaurant just really griping about the food and the service, and the waitress is about to cry, when the kindly, old, seasoned waitress comes up to the perky young waitress, and says, "Don't let him get to you. He's just suffering from Cook's Syndrome."