Saturday, March 26, 2005

"He drinks a whiskey drink; he drinks a vodka drink; he drinks a lager drink; he drinks a cider drink"

Monday, March 7
Steve's office (continued)

"Can you modify what Landon wrote?"

"It's probably written in Powerbuilder. Yeah, I guess we could do something."

"Call Marty in customer service and have him show you what he's doing to modify those files so you know what you're fixing."

He nods.

"Get back to me by tomorrow morning with the status."

"It's gonna take longer than that-"

"You don't have to be finished. You just have to give me the STATUS!"

"I'll get right on that, Steve." He walks out.

"Denise, call Jersey and find out how we get those policies transferred out there."

"But that's gonna take a lot of work, Steve. We'd have to-"

"Just CALL them and find out how to get started! If there's 100 things that need to get done, bring me the list of 100 things."

"OK, Steve." She starts to walk out.


She turns around.

"I really hope I don't have to remind you about this again."


Tuesday, March 8, 6:30pm
Steve's house

Tonight I am praising the Lord. Lord Calvert, that is. For the past three nights, I have been getting loaded earlier and earlier. Today, I actually entertained the thought of going out for a drink at lunchtime.

I knew it would only be a matter of time. The Burn is back.

I did a lot of drinking between my senior year of high school and my first year of college. For a while, I was getting loaded every day. And one day, I felt it, and it would be a long time before it left.

It was in a very specific spot, two inches below my solar plexus. It felt.... hot, like I swallowed a hunk of coal which then began burning with a deep red glow.

The Burn varied between being almost undetectable and being unbearably painful. But it was always there, gnawing away at me like a pesky child, or a phone that won't stop ringing.

It made me angry, The Burn. Or, I should say, angrier. It wore at me relentlessly, as if it were never going to stop until I was dead or insane. Between that, and my sexual frustration, I was constantly on edge. I snapped at everyone who looked at me the wrong way.

Now, sitting here in my computer chair, watching porn, The Burn has returned. I am fifty pounds lighter, and 16 years older and wiser. I've come a long way since my high school days, and somehow, The Burn has still found me. Have I grown at all? Have I changed? Or am I the same loser I was at 18?


Wednesday, March 9, 12:15pm
Steve's car

I'm on my way to Circuit City to pick up a DVD. I turn left off the main road and take a shortcut down a narrow side street lined with cars.

A pickup truck is coming towards me. There's enough room for both of us, but just barely, and we're both going to have to hug our respective sides of the road to be able to pass each other.

He leaves a good three feet between him and the cars, so that I, even with my tiny little two-seater, can't pass. What an asshole.

Then I watch, incredulous, as he starts flailing his hands in the air animatedly. At ME! Obviously, he wanted me to pull over to the side of the road so he could get through. His mouth moves rapidly, like an angry character in a silent movie.

The Burn flares angrily, radiating a wall of heat, like an old-style Italian brick oven. Anger consumes me, so that I can barely sit still. I pull over a few feet and roll my window down; as he passes by, he turns fully to face me, shaking his head slowly side to side, the sides of his mouth curled in disugust. He's an otherwise sedate-looking, middle-aged man with granny glasses.

"Maybe if you stayed on your own FUCKING side of the road, you wouldn't have these problems!" I shout.

He rolls his window down. "I was there first! When I get there first, you pull over to the side!"

"You were there FIRST? What, is this your road now? Funny, I don't see your name on it anywhere!" I stick my head out the window and look left and right with exaggerated, theatrical movements. "Nope! Doesn't say COCKSUCKER anywhere!"

"Go to hell, asshole."

"FUCK you! If you knew how to drive that piece of shit, we BOTH could have passed!"

He's shaking his head at me again, like a disappointed teacher. "You're not-" he begins.

"FUCK YOU COCKSUCKER! If you're gonna pass me, fucking pass me. And if you wanna get your ass kicked, then get the FUCK outta the car!"

He drives off.

Pretty sure that wasn't in the driver's ed manual.