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Friday, Feb. 20, 2004 / 4:00 p.m. ~Absolution?~ I hear people praising god. I�ll never understand the people here, this job, I�ll never understand how I�ve stayed, and this is a direct continuation of what I wrote yesterday, only because I just reread it. Now it�s cell phones with annoying rings, chatter that is constant, monotonal, laughs of varying intensities, degrees of gut busting. I long for silence. Even my keyboard has too much vacant space beneath, sounds in a thudding echo with each key pressed, each sticky key pressed hard, thump, thud, thump, thump, thump. Sounds of machinery, and the group hum of a hundred or more PCs, all old, all Pentium II and less. This is a III, I feel so privileged. I feel alternately superior and inferior, confident and lacking any. I slow, rest my hands on my wrist rest, I feel a buzz, a vibration. This, the fluorescents, the odors that never leave, just merge into one giant scent of unpleasant proportions. He says, �Am I going to have to drag you from that place?� It�s toxic, I�ve always felt, from the beginning, I tell him I�ve stayed because it�s my penance, because I carry inherited Catholic guilt, I harbor it, I give it a home. My Karma has been bad, this is retribution in my lifetime. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It�s been an eternity since my last confession. I confess I have never confessed. But I was cruel to two of our family dogs. I once encouraged a small cat to lick my nipples. I told my mother I was sick, that my stomach hurt, so I could stay home from school. I lay in her bed and pretended to make sexy phone calls, my fingers depressing the buttons which used to indicate the phone was on the hook. Remember those? Remember phone cradles? Those translucent buttons. I lay in bed and watched sitcom reruns. I wasn�t sick. I hit my cats, when they were young and were endangering themselves, or my material possessions. It was wrong, but I felt it was the only way they would learn. In truth, it was my own attempt to relieve repressed anger, subconscious of course. I�ve been very, very bad. I try to be good now, but I held a lot in, I let it out in bursts, somewhat uncontrollably, and definitely in bouts of especially poor judgment. Might I be absolved some other way? Is this my penance? It has been six years. Is that long enough? Might I leave? Might I win the Mega Millions jackpot this very evening? Is there a way out? What does it entail? And when shall I cease the writing, the spewing of words to describe it all, repeat myself constantly? It�s early yet, I am at work, at this place, the object of all of this. Work. No more talk of god, idle chit chat has dropped, lulled, there is a hush, nothing but buzzing and keys depressed, and an achy anxiousness. Ready to get on with living when I walk away. Cost of the War in Iraq
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