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Born Sinister

The radio plays at work. I have no say in what station plays. No one asked me.

There's a song that plays at least once a day, I'm guessing it was a hit about a year ago. It's a whiny little piece of crap with some poor-ass cringe-inducing singer moaning about not being a perfect person. It is horrible. Guantanamo Bay horrible.

Whenever this song comes on the radio, my day goes downhill. Like clockwork. It is a cursed song. I always pray that they won't play it until late in the afternoon. I can't stand another wholly bad day. I have become afraid of this terrible song.

Speaking of curses, I was going through my dad's attic a few years back and found my first baseball mitt, a tiny little scrap of leather and (gasp) left-handed. Turns out that I am a natural southpaw, converted at an early age.

In the old days, lefties were called sinister. It's what the word means. I was born sinister and converted to good. All of this explains why my best intentions always come out so clumsy, so pitifully wrong. It's against my nature. Evil is my way.

However, since the infantile conversion, I am not very good with my left either. My brain goes right, my body goes left. I am a jumble of confusion and indecision with every movement, each impulse conflicted. Do I do good or evil? Do I create or destroy?

How bad should I feel?

There's no telling. You can't take back the things that happen to you when you're young. Clarity and decisiveness and peace; those are things I have learned to admire and fear in others - they will never be mine. Not completely.

Curses!




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post #288
bio: blaine
perma-link
8/9/2005
12:34

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