E: 1/3/03

Work Diary, 1/3/02

I have been damaged goods from the first moment that I walked naked
from my father's bed. He's dead now; I am not. Is it a clich? to say,
"I wish I were"? Or, as people tell me, would that be too much?

I don't wish to be dead. God knows I don't want to overdo it. That
would be wrong. It's tempting, yes, but it would be wrong. I haven't
figured out why yet, though it has something to do with my sister, my
aunt, my dog, my lover, the unpaid bills. Also I don't like the idea of
death, which seems to be one long, boring dream that you can't escape.
Look at the poets, the ones you were forced to read as a kid: They were
on to Death, its tedium, its banality. Often they saw life in the same
terms, of course, so how can you trust them?

Damaged goods. I am damaged goods. I have nothing to offer but my
presence, and good grammar. I can construct a sentence and make sure
there is perfect verb agreement. I can deconstruct the same sentence. I
can't make that skill a metaphor for life, however. A simile, then?
Maybe.

In a moment I will call in to work, tell them I'm sick or have a family
emergency. Either way, I won't be going in. People will be
disappointed. At work I'm known for my friendly sarcasm. In real life
I'm known for the same thing, but with an edge. The edge is not the
sharpness of wit. Rather, it's the nastiness of a man who's been
censored too long. If three-quarters of your smile is forced, is it a
real smile?

Self-help gurus say it is, but I'm not so sure. Books have been written
about the smile, how it moves you through life. I've been smiling my
whole life, and, yes, it has moved me along. It's moved me right into
middle age with no prospects and a car that's missing a hubcap. It's
moved me into a new millennium that may as well have stopped when I
turned seven. It's moved me enough to make a mountain out of a
molehill.

I think I'm bitter. Take a bite out of me, and you'll walk away with a
grimace. That's what bugs me the most, really. I have a life that is
nothing if not perfect, and it's not enough. "Damaged goods," I've been
called, by the smartest person I've ever met. Does he have to be right
about everything?