Fri, 09/16/2005 — Sak

I was eight the first time my father molested me. I remember the quiet chirping of crickets, my brother, Robert, curled up in the bed next to mine. Mom was away then; she'd often entertain gentleman callers on the weekend. Up to Kingdom City through the weekend on "business," back to Columbia on Monday. Smiles and hugs for everyone. It was obviously getting to dad, I could see the tired actor beneath his stoic veneer.

The first night it happened, he slipped in, slack jawed, silent. He didn't say a word. Bobby was equally as silent, but I knew he was awake. The next morning it were as if nary a thing happened. We ate breakfast, dad read the paper, he wished us a good day. I couldn't tell anyone. If I did, what would happen? Would father lose his job? Would mom and dad divorce? Would they quit loving me? I know now as much as I knew then.

One day at school Robert found a snake. A simple, run of the mill garden snake, but its exterior was covered in slugs. He poked and prodded, and the snake lived on, but its will was utterly crushed. It's as if it were searching for intelligibility where there was none. It's how I felt. I felt like Sisyphus, but I wanted the rock to just roll over me. Enough of this.

I was twenty-eight when I got married. I had a nice job and a fantastic wife. Our sexual life was nothing short of commonplace, but I've never found this a problem. I'm a slave to habituation. Sometimes during sex, flights of fancy pop up in my head; I imagine I'm a detective or a fighter pilot. I'm not participating in sex during these figments, I'm doing what a detective would do. Detecting. Snooping about. Fighting wars. In those moments, I'm glorious.

I don't have an imagination when I'm not having sex. I perform computations. I help people fill out their W2 forms. I am a human calculator. You press the buttons, I give you the results. I've talked to psychiatrists before, and they always ask me, "You sound like you feel as if you have no meaning in your life. Do you ever entertain thoughts of suicide?" No, because that would require that somehow I am a libertine, autonomous-thinking individual. I'm not. I don't entertain thoughts. Self-determination is not in my vocabulary.

I don't think I'm a bad person, but I know for a fact that I am not a good one. I don't have any hobbies. I don't listen to music. I don't watch television. I don't play sports. I occasionally read the paper. Only during breakfast, though.

I guess I better get back to auditing your Galaxian machines, huh?


Mon, 06/22/2009 — Kabbage

W- UHHH (WOW this is awkward)


Y-you wanna talk this out over some Primal Rage?

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