2:39 p.m. - Monday, Nov. 03, 2003
So you stop by the Starbuck's and, in a hollow voice, you say, "Barista, gimme a vanilla latte with skim milk," as if it were the gun you were going to use to blow your brains out. And you take that vanilla latte, and you drink it. It tastes like crap, but you don't really care. You're beyond tasting things. You just want to look at Cliff Yablonki's website.
But you can't. You're at work.
You need to laugh. It's true that you were digging out stumps with a pickaxe yesterday, so now your whole upper torso is so sore that it hurts to laugh. But you don't care. You want to laugh, you want to hurt, you just want to feel something in this, the dark hour of the soul -- something besides crappy, I mean. You already feel crappy.
You hear the conference calls on the speakerphones, and they sound like the voices of the dead, centuries upon centuries of the dead, saying: we, too, were once parties to conference calls. And you know it's true. And you know that someday, in the mere blink of an eye, or after an aeon of suffering, you will be conferenced in on that necrophone, and that knowledge is the only thing that sustains you in this, the dark hour of the soul, since you're at work and you can't look at Cliff Yablonski's website, godammit.