At Least They're Committed

“I saw that.”

“What?” I don’t even turn around, instead staring straight ahead at the monitor.

“What you wrote to Caitlin . . . about Saturday.”

Eh, “It’s nothing. Did you see the part where I said I was going to be really nice to that woman who is so unkind to me?’

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s just lovely. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I swivel around and cock my head, looking into his violet eyes. “Well, whatever are you talking about then?” I feign.

“Has it ever occurred to you to stop playing completely? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the way you yield your appeal is an abuse of power?”

“Yes!” I say very chipper like, turning back toward the monitor. “That will take me straight to the lowest ring of hell, won’t it? At least Dante says so. That’s OK, people are more interesting there!”

“No, really, they’re not.”

I turn back around. “I’m pissing people off today. I don’t have an outlet and I’m restless and when I get restless and hungry I project poorly. I’m bored. I need to feed.”

I wait for him to say something; but instead he’s gone. There are no answers. I’m only trying to be playful; I’m only trying to be nice. I’m not having any fun . . . and that can be a very, very, very dangerous thing.