I
had a falling out with an old friend many years ago
and
I can’t stand to even hear anything about her.
Can’t
stand
it. Drives me crazy. People say you must try
to
transcend it all, let it go. I have to
hear about
her
fucking pilates classes, her irritating stock
portfolio
gains. Why do they all torture
me
with this shit? Can’t they see how
sensitive
I
am? It’s up to me to worry about the
budget,
the
contract deadlines, the flu-shot schedules,
the
fucking mortgage amortization table,
but
I’m supposed to deal with this crap
too?
It’s
too much for me. I don’t transcend. I
give
in
to temptation, and everything is a temptation.
Ice
cream in the freezer, bottle of wine
under
the sink, porn on the internet, cheap
mail-order
drugs from Canada. The psychologist
calls
and notes how happy she is in North
Carolina.
The
students arrive for class, full of a love
for
learning. I could care less.
They
are happy it’s been raining for days,
the
drought finally over. But I liked the
drought.
That’s
the way I roll. I don’t fucking
transcend.
I
brood. I complain. I work myself into a
state
of
whatever the opposite of grace is. I don’t
fucking
know anymore. The priest goes from room
to
room in the hospital, offering safe passage.
No one
can
resist. Everyone gives in. But I don’t want to take
that
ride. I want to stay stuck in this
twisted
moment
of my own passionate moral inferiority.
— Terence Winch
from Vanitas (Spring 2012)