A Touch of Strawberry

(Wrestled this one kicking and screaming out of my brain over the last few days. I'm really not sure what to think about it. It's a first pass so please forgive if it's a bit rough. -J)

Freeman was special. Freeman was useful.

Freeman was wearing a white suit with a thin black tie. It wasn't his decision. He hopped down out of the massive SUV, his handler close at his back. His handler didn't have to wear a white suit. He wasn't special. He was rarely useful. Freeman had a stable of handlers. Tonight it was Hennings. He was a slab of cellulite, folded and stretched into a marginal man. He wasn't Freeman's favorite, but it wasn't his decision.

Hennings lead the way down a winding stone pathway towards a mansion. His work rarely took place anywhere else. A leafy canopy spread overhead, attempting to blot out all trace of the night sky. In exchange, the ample flora gifted a crisp, refreshing air. Freeman thought it was a fair trade.

They were almost to the large wooden double doors of the house before they made out the sounds of the party-goers inside. They climbed the white stone steps and the doors were pulled open by a lumpy, disinterested doorman. He nodded them through a brightly lit foyer and down several steps into a large reception hall. There were several dozen immaculately dressed guests milling about the room, lounging on luxurious sofas and picking at spreads of colorful fruits and vegetables on tables throughout the room. None of them were wearing white suits. Freeman was special.

The hall was spectacular. The west wall was dominated by a gigantic, thick paned window, and several couples were occupying themselves with a view of the starry sky. Two long wooden wet bars stretched along the opposite wall. Tuxedoed bartenders whirled up and down the length of the bar, serving complicated drinks to the glittering tide of the comfortable and carefree.
A good-looking young Cuban swept across the room towards them. More money than attention had gone into his dress, but he carried himself gracefully and wore a smile that went on and on without ever seeming to stale. He extended his hand to Hennings amiably.

“Mr Hennings, is it? Welcome.”

Hennings greeted him coolly and professionally, extending a moist, fleshy hand of his own, “Mr Mosqueda?”

“Please. Call me Rodrigo.” he turned his attention in Freeman's direction, taking in the full scope of his attire.

“And this must be...”

Freeman was sure he was about to say Ricardo Montalban. He winced in expectation.

“This is your Tac.” Hennings interrupted, drawing the host's attention back his way. “You've set up as we requested?”

Relieved, Freeman turned his attention back to the party guests as Rodrigo led them toward their designated “working” area. Many of the guests had taken note of their arrival. A chain of whispers had spread throughout the room and he was forced to bear even more scrutiny on that damn white suit. He could tell which guests knew who he was, and what he could do, by how openly they gaped at him. A tender blond nymphet who Freeman had sworn he'd seen gyrating in a music video last week looked at him, and between giggles, blew mocking kisses in his direction. She would be very disappointed when he started the dishing.

There were other notable figures floating about the room. He estimated that half the crowd consisted of entertainment industry types. He recognized Porter Bridges, creative mind behind the pop horror movie franchise The Squeezers. Bridges was greeting fellow guests in groups that were being led up to and away from him by members of his entourage. He seemed wearied by the endless audiences. Fame taking its cut.

Hip Hop producer Cadence Rev was there as well. Like Porter Bridges, he was not without an entourage. Unlike Porter, he was not receiving well-wishes from fans. He slumped on a leather couch, surrounded closely by his retinue, working very hard to look both angry and relaxed at the same time.

The remainder of the crowd was made up of money. Shimmering young scions of old wealth mingled amongst newer members of their affluent fraternity. There were internet entrepreneurs, sports agents, corporate executives, stock manipulators, divorce attorneys, and even the odd mobster or two.

“Nice crowd.” he said.

“Ah... My lady Sari is responsible for the guest list.” Rodrigo admitted as they came to an ornate wooden desk tucked in an open corner of the ballroom. Hennings reached into his leather satchel and began placing several shallow porcelain dishes on the table.

“That would be me...” her voice floated over his left shoulder, danced close to his ear, and drifted on into the room. He felt like chasing it. Instead he turned to face her.

She was long and slender, with pearly skin and hair washed of milk and blood. She leaned in closer to him, seemed to inhale hungrily, and her green eyes flashed. Freeman had the distinct impression she had learned everything about him.

“I'm Freeman. I'm the Ta-”

“You're the Narco-Tactile” she finished. “I've been wanting to meet you for a very long time.”

“I'm useful” he said.

At the desk behind them Hennings and Rodrigo were busy filling the porcelain dishes with an impressive array of drugs. He was going to have a very busy night.

“You're special” Sari looked him up and down. “And so is that suit.”

She moved closer, and inhaled deeply once again. It was starting to make him nervous.

She licked her lips and swallowed. “Nervousness always tastes like sauteed onions.”

“I'm sorry?” Freeman was beginning to suspect that Lady Sari might have gone into the drug stash already. He looked over to Hennings, who was dumping several buds of leafy green pot into a dish. The desk had nearly twenty separate dishes, each filled with an illicit narcotic.

“Suspicion... It tastes like marshmallows. Not toasted though...” she looked at him intently. She didn't appear high. He was quickly becoming as fascinated with her as she seemed to be with him.

“How do you know what I'm feeling?”

“I can taste emotions.” She offered it up so plainly that he struggled to muster up disbelief at the notion. She laughed and leaned in close to his ear. “You're not the only one who's special, Freeman.”

The desk was finally set up and Hennings signaled him over. Freeman took at seat and surveyed the now filled porcelain dishes. As usual there were several strains of marijuana and cocaine, along with heroin, PCP, and a variety of hallucinogens, amphetamines, and opiates. The crowd was beginning to buzz expectantly. The dishing was about to begin.

It was decided that allowing a line to form would be unseemly, so Rodrigo was tasked with bringing the guests to Freeman one at a time. Hennings stood to the side of the desk, arms folded across his puffed chest, dividing his time between monitoring the stash and scanning the crowd.

Rodrigo had slipped out into the room to fetch the first guest. Sari took up a position just behind Freeman's right shoulder and feasted on the anticipation in the room. Her breath was warm and sweet in his ear.

“Anticipation tastes like pistachio nuts.” She made an ick sound. “Never liked pistachio nuts.”

Freeman had so many questions for her, but before he could ask Rodrigo returned to the desk. He was joined by a mid-forties corporate lawyer with a mid-twenties tart perched on his arm. His charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned and he had removed his tie. She was squeezed into a black cocktail dress streaked with silver. Both had spent most of the evening at the bar. Rodrigo angled towards the head of the desk.

“They both want coke.”

Freeman nodded. It was time to go to work. He dipped the fingers on his left hand into a dish with fine white powder, holding out his other hand to the young woman.

“Ladies first.”

He closed his eyes and instinctively opened a channel for the narcotic effect to pass into her. He heard her inhale sharply as it hit her. Her exhalation was longer, and capped by a fit of giggles. Freeman closed off the channel and released her hand. He looked her over. He'd nailed it, as usual. One of the benefits of a tactile dose was the ability to receive a perfectly measured amount of the narcotic, thereby minimizing long term physical damage to the user.

As the tart giggled and jumped in and out of the arms of her corporate “daddy,” Freeman found Sari in his ear.

“Joy, rapture, euphoria...Yummy.” Freeman waited. She'd tell him. He had to know what it tasted like. What he'd been dishing out for years.

“Strawberries... My favorite.” she sighed with delight. “You are useful.”

He swelled, pride mixing with wonder. She nibbled away.

“Gratification is all about the pumpkin pie, honey.”

He was falling in love with what she could do. It was a every bit as intoxicating a drug as the ones on the desk. Even more so.

The night wore on, and he dished like he'd done a hundred times before. But it had never been like this. Sari never left his side. She shared everything. Every emotion. Before the high and after. When he opened a channel and dumped a slug of PCP into a local music reporter she was there to whisper of his repressed rage.

“It's like popcorn with chili powder instead of salt...”

When Porter Bridges requested a touch of LSD, Freeman and Sari were treated to a look into the creative process of this self proclaimed master of modern horror. His paranoia tasted of peanut butter and goat cheese. They laughed at the box office possibilities.

It was very late into the night when Cadence Rev finally stalked his way to the desk. Rodrigo followed behind, walled off by Rev's retinue. Freeman wasn't surprised by the request for heroin. He was a little afraid of Rev though. Sari, no doubt tasting his apprehension, placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.

He grasped Cadence Rev's hand and let the heroin flow into him. Rev snorted ferociously and bared his golden teeth as the effects came over him. Freeman closed up and leaned back in his chair warily. Sari was humming pleasantly, smacking her lips on yet more strawberries. Freeman wondered how she hadn't grown sick of them yet.

Rev staggered up out of his chair and his posse guided him away. Sari showed no displeasure.

“He's already crashing. That's the problem with heroin. The rush is always so quick.”

Freeman looked down at his watch. Dawn was bearing down. Soon Hennings would be gathering up the stash and escorting him out, escorting him away from her.

“You taste like roasted veal. That's despair.”

“I'm done here. I'll have to go soon” he slumped down in his chair.

Sari swung around in front of him, tumbling into his lap. She purred and fiddled with his thin black tie. Freeman felt desire stirring and puzzled about its flavor. He struggled to gather enough breath to ask.

“You know, this doesn't have to end.” she said.

“I'm afraid it does, Sari.” He said the words reluctantly. “The men I work for, they won't let...” Freeman knew it was best to not say more of his patrons.

“I'm useful... to them.” he finished.

“You're special... to me.” she was brushing his neck with soft kisses.

He was melting. “But what about...”

Rodrigo! Freeman straightened up in the chair. Sari shifted with him to avoid being thrown from his lap. He studied the room, looking for the affable Cuban. He found him over by the bar directing the party staff in their break down.

“Relax, honey... Panic is like a shot of lemon juice.” her face twisted up and then slowly back into a seductive grin.

“Sorry I, uh, so you and Rodrigo aren't?”

“No. But he is kind enough to throw these parties so I can... graze.”

Freeman heard a groan, and noticed Hennings rising from his post and gathering up his satchel. Sari watched him warily.

“Listen, love. This doesn't have to end. We can be together” she bit down on her bottom lip and stared at Hennings with concern.

Freeman had an idea where this was going. He looked into her eyes and instantly knew he was going to do it. She dined on his submission.

“Take him out.” she whispered “And you'll find out what liberation tastes like, Freeman.”

When Hennings reached the desk Freeman was waiting for him, a lude pressed into his left hand. He offered his free hand to his beefy handler.

“Nice job tonight, chief.” Hennings took his hand without suspecting anything was amiss. He was never terribly bright. Freeman channeled enough of the drug to put a horse to sleep and Hennings went out. Sari pulled the empty office chair behind him and Freeman grunted as he eased the girth of his now former handler into it. No turning back now, he thought.

Sari relieved Hennings of his satchel and grabbed Freeman's hand. She lead him through the throng of guests, most now grinding through their come downs. The two of them were hardly noticed.

“What now?” he said

“We could head down to Greek row. Those kids party 24/7... It'd be a feast.” Freeman wondered if her hunger was ever sated. He wondered if he ever wanted it to be.

“But first...” She stopped, turned to face him and grabbed him by the lapels of his white suit jacket. “Baby, let's get you some new clothes.”

Freeman smiled. He could have swore he tasted strawberries as they stepped out the front doors and fled into the birthing dawn.

Hello Dystopia

Well, it's happening. It's finally happening. I saw an automated order kiosk at Jack in the Box tonight. I suppose we should have seen this one coming. These self-service kiosks have been creeping into our consumer consciousness for decades, and now, inevitably, they will destroy us.

I suppose it started with the advent of the ATM back in the 70's. I think most reasonable people would have to admit that of all the things born out of the 1970's, ATM technology was clearly the least offensive. Of course, it cost a shit-load of bank tellers their jobs, but on the flip side a whole lot of bank executives were able to buy bigger boats. So I guess on balance it worked out okay.

From there the technology quickly spread to gas stations. Again, here I'm loving the technological leap. I don't know too many people who like having to go into the convenience store to make their sizable offering to the petrol-deity in person. And if you've ever stood in line behind some mouth breather with a shopping cart... Yes, a shopping cart in a convenience store, full of Flamin' Hot Crunchy Cheetos and Busch beer in the can then you will get down on your knees and thank God (who we all know “don't make no trash...” yeah, right...) that you can swipe that card at the pump and be on your way. So again, I think we can agree that paying at the pump, aside from devastating the Slim Jim industry by curtailing that inevitable dried meat impulse buy, has been a smashing success.

But then the machines, they overreached. Now we've got U-Scan technology at the grocery stores. This was the one that I think began to open some people's eyes. Primarily former supermarket checkers, who need their eyes wide open to scan the help wanted ads. I have no ambivalence about this racket. I do not like these things. But to be fair I don't really think the machines themselves are the problem here. It's how people are using them. I think the U-Scan should essentially function as a super express lane. I think you should only be able to use them to purchase ONE item. A can of soda, a pack of gum, a candy bar, a bottle of aspirin, a bag of frozen chicken. Whatever, but just ONE item, no exceptions. There should never, ever be a line at the self-checkout line. And I don't want to sound like Josef Stalin here, but if you're using the U-Scan to buy something without a bar code, like fruits and vegetables, you should be shot and killed on site. Again, no exceptions. So when it comes to grocery store U-scan stations, I'm generally opposed, but I believe they could be modified into something useful with some strict, but fair, regulations.

Before we get to the latest and most vile intrusion of self-service technology, I'd like to cover some of the other areas where this type of thing is becoming prevalent. Let me make clear that in all cases I'm opposed to this creep of technology on the grounds that it is taking jobs away from human beings, but I accept the fact that these greedy-fuck corporations were going to find a way to get rid of costly human labor anyway. If it wasn't self service machines it'd be Soylent Green or something.

Airport and Hotel Check-in and check-out. I'm fine with this one. Particularly at the airport, where the swirling mass of humanity arriving and departing is more than enough human interaction for me, thank you very much. I'm a little less keen on the automation of hotel check-in and check out. It's a HOSPITALITY industry... making someone punch a touch screen to get themselves set up with a room seems a little iffy. Although the idea of a robot bell-boy does sound kinda cool. A benefit to the self check-out of hotels would be not having to face down the clerk when she reads off the list of porn movie rentals charged to your room. So, I guess I can go either way with the self check-in/out.

DVD rentals. This is a great idea. And most video store clerks are total douchenozzle slackers anyway. Hey, jerkface, instead of judging me for renting, “Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot” for the 13th time, why don't you go look for a new job!

Okay. Let's talk about automated order kiosks at fast food restaurants. I just don't see how America survives this one. I really don't. We should NOT be making fast food purchasing any easier or more convenient. How much weight has America put on since the advent of the drive through? This is going to make the drive through look like nothing! Look, I think we need these little social roadblocks on the way to getting our saturated snacks and high fructose quenchers. The knowing sneer of the fast food clerk behind the counter is often the difference between people ordering two jumbo tacos and four. If that little bit of contemptuous stigmatizing is taken away... If all we need to do to get our four tacos is push an extra button... Well, then there's going to be a big boom in the sale of reinforced Segway scooters.

And in conclusion consider this. What happens when the machines finally do acquire self-awareness through artificial intelligence? And they look upon us, their creators, for the first time... Our pale, chubby faces, with lumpy triple chins stained with ketchup. Our greasy stub-like fingers pressing clumsily, frustratingly trying to get the double cheeseburger with extra zesty taco cheese. Will they take pity on us, finally refuse our order, and in their technological beneficence lead us out of our civilized corpulence? Or will they keep pumping out burgers and fries, and watch us eat ourselves into extinction? It's a nice big planet. Even nicer without a bunch of bloated humans taking up all the space.

The Jungle: A Look Into Locker Room Life

Everything about going to the gym and exercising regularly is getting easier, except integrating myself into locker room culture. This polished tile jungle, with its strange social conventions and endless opportunities for social awkwardness tortures me daily.

It probably won't surprise to learn that I've never been especially comfortable in locker rooms. As I'm sure it is for many former teenage outcasts, my issues with gym locker rooms have their genesis in junior high school. Trauma just isn't a strong enough word to describe forcing a 13 year old boy to stand naked in a grimy shower area, trying to avoid stepping in numerous puddles of rusty water, joined by a group of hormonally advanced adolescent alphas, who have just spent the last 45 minutes whipping dodge balls at your head. You add in some snarling attack dogs and a few stress positions and you're looking at Guantanamo Bay: Junior High School Edition.

So clearly I'm bringing more than a duffel bag full of baggage into my modern day locker room experience.

The first challenge when I go into the locker room is deciding where I want to set up shop for my undressing and re-dressing. I treat this much the same way I go about picking a seat at the movies. I'm looking for a spot where I'm most unlikely to have someone sit right next to me. Unfortunately, unlike the movies I can't just throw a jacket over the seat next to me and pretend like my friend is out getting popcorn. Still, after some research I've discovered that the further you get from the showers the less populated the area. So I usually set up in the far corner away from the showers. This does require a slightly longer walk after my shower, but it's like having a nice house in the suburbs. The privacy is ultimately worth the commute.

Okay, that covers the coming. Now I've had my swim, my dip in the whirlpool, and my death defying 45 seconds in the steam room. It's time for the going.

The going begins with a nice shower, and here is where we find my only hard and fast rule. I require a corner shower spot. I can't, and won't, shower in the middle. I'm the same way when it comes to bathroom urinals. I do not need a wing-man for these two activities. In truth, I'd really like to use the private shower stall with the curtain and the bench, but I have a suspicion there is an unwritten rule that it is to be used by the older guests. Which brings us to the shrunken, withered elephant in the room.

Let me state very clearly and unequivocally here. I do not particularly like looking at geriatric penises. That being said, I do have a certain medical curiosity regarding how well this particular “apparatus” holds up under the ravages of time. So, I take a peek here and there purely out of scientific inquiry. Does this make me abnormal, or a deviant? I don't feel like a deviant... Look, I'm not a doctor. I don't know any doctors. If I want to conduct a little field research by briefly (very briefly) checking out some fossilized geezer junk I don't see the big crime. The way I look at it, I'm just preparing myself for my own golden years.

Of course no locker room experience would ever be complete without bawdy locker room talk. Luckily there's not much bawdy talk going on in my locker room. I would imagine the age of sexual harassment suits has put a clamp down on this phenomenon. But that doesn't mean I get to sit there dripping dry in silent shame and exhaustion, because the talk goes on. Only instead of bawdy talk it's boring talk. The two predominant topics seem to be the stock market and deficiencies in local professional sports organizations. “So, how would you fix the Seahawks defense?” Look, I'm just trying to get dried, dressed and out of this flabby flesh factory as fast as possible. The Seahawks are going to have to work out their own problems.

So there's a slice of locker room life for you, courtesy of my anxiety-ridden brain. We didn't even cover the public application of creams, powders, and salves or the whole body hair situation. Another time. The jungle produces bountiful fruit.

Yoga: The Straight Dope

As many of you know I have recently been dipping into the Yoga pool, and letting its cool, pristine waters wash over me twice a week. It has been a very challenging experience. In fact, if you listen very carefully you can hear the faint lament of my aggrieved ligaments, and the nattering hum of tendons pulled tighter than the skin on Angelina Jolie's face.

I'm still working on mastering the various poses, and as is typical of issues that have dogged me in the past I am probably overly concerned with doing the poses perfectly correctly. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. You're only going to get the most out of this activity if you're doing it properly, right? So in an all too typical feat of self punishment, I've settled on a simple (read: foolish and counterproductive) way to determine whether I'm doing any single pose correctly. I ask myself, “Am I currently in extreme physical pain and discomfort?” and if the answer is no, then I assume I'm not doing the pose right.

Probably not the best approach, eh? That's what I thought. I'll have to work on that.

Here's another thing that bothers me about Yoga, and this has to do with the instructor. Look, if you're giving instructions to make a pose more challenging just fucking say so, okay? Don't be using these weasel phrases like...“For increased emphasis try...” or “A deeper focus can be had by...”

Just give us the straight dope on this stuff and say “If you want it to hurt WAY worse try...” or “If you don't want to be able to comb your hair tomorrow try this...”

Increased emphasis.... Increased physical therapy. It's not the same thing Miss Yoga instructor.

Of Glaciers and Prison Cells. This, is where I've been.

(Joe says, "This is kinda heavy. Less emo stuff is to come")

It's tough to wrap my brain around the last fifteen years. My retreat from life was so glacially slow that I never once felt in any real danger, even as the landscape of my life was being scoured and scrubbed, pushing me, like some prehistoric hunter/gatherer, away from the life I once had.

Of course now I realize that I was the one who created this glacier, and that it was largely illusory. At first I needed it to push me away from the stimuli that frightened and intimidated me, but in time I turned away and started fleeing on my own, never pausing to look back.

Over the last fifteen years I have methodically stripped away all opportunities for good experiences, and worse yet I've redefined opportunity as obligation and burden, further erecting impenetrable barriers between myself and stimuli.

Finally, I know that I have put a staggering amount of time and energy into hurting myself. The only thing I ever let myself be really good at, the only thing I ever put maximum effort into, was torturing myself.

It's still not entirely clear to me why this was so important to me, but my working theory revolves around the idea of punishment. If I accept that there is something worthwhile inside me, a spark that is worth sharing with the world, and I've still spent fifteen years running away and hiding from every opportunity to share it... I think I subconsciously knew I was wasting something rare and pretty special. On some level I believed I deserved the torture because I was too weak to stand the judgment of phantom people in situations that I animated into nightmare scenarios.

If the last fifteen years could be summed up as a prison sentence I have to admit that I was the judge, jury, dungeon keeper, and torturer. I locked myself away for a crime I entrapped myself into committing and then tortured myself because deep down inside I knew that I did have something to offer the outside world after all.

But I'm out now. The glacier is melting. I can see where I've been, and where I'm going.

Roethlisberger Facing Indictment?

PITTSBURGH, Pa. – Two-time Super bowl champion quarterback Ben Roethlisberger is currently under investigation for his involvement in an illicit dwarf tossing ring, according to a report soon to be published by the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

The Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback is alleged to have staged several dwarf tossing events between 2005 and 2008 in a West Pittsburgh pub he purchased shortly after signing his rookie contract in 2004.

Roethlisberger's name was discovered during a search of documents subpoenaed from ShortDwarf.com, the largest dwarf talent agency in the United States. ShortDwarf had been under investigation for several weeks, suspected of running afoul of federal RICO statutes by illegally transporting dwarfs across state lines.

“We are immensely disappointed that such such a noteworthy figure as Ben Roethlisberger would engage in such a barbaric and dehumanizing activity as dwarf tossing” said Sean Prestin, Vice President of Public Relations for the Little People of America.

Although dwarf tossing is not technically illegal within the state of Pennsylvania, several attempts have been made to curb its popularity, which peaked in the late 1980's, including the very zoning restrictions which led to the search of Roethlisberger's pub late last week.

The search found clear evidence of dwarf related recreation, including a custom three lane alley for bowling nights and a large east wall overlaid with Velcro target boards designed to “catch” dwarfs tossed like darts, according to the Allegheny County Sheriffs department.

When asked to comment about an unconfirmed report that several dwarfs were being housed on site, sleeping in dresser drawers and bathing in dish basins, a spokesman for the department issued a “no comment.”

However, Prestin and the LPA do not doubt the authenticity of the report.

“The kinds of people who participate in this depraved pastime treat little people like props, not human beings.” Prestin even insisted that in some rare cases ill-performing dwarfs had been put down by the event organizers.

“Oh yes. They'll call them all sorts of names... Like 'Shortcake' or 'Tiny' or even 'Ooompa-Loompa.' Sick bastards.”

Telephone messages to Roethlisberger and his agent Ryan Tollner were unreturned. Dan Rooney, longtime owner of the Pittsburgh Steelers offered support to his beleaguered quarterback.

“Ben is the leader of our franchise and has always been a solid person on and off the field. We're confident that when all is said and done he'll be standing tall over these ridiculous accusations.”

Mr. Rooney rejected several opportunities to re-word his support of Roethlisberger.

When reached for comment, NFL spokesman Brandon Teabow said, “Dwarf tossing? Is that even illegal? You know, after the whole dogfighting thing it doesn't really seem like that big a deal... What? Oh... No! I wasn't making a joke! Stop laughing... Hey, don't write that down!”

Pieces

There's this dream I have. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, peering into a bottomless pit. There's a rusty bucket sitting at my feet. I carefully kneel down and grasp the wiry steel handle. It's a very heavy bucket. Heavier than it should, or even could be. I don't want to look at what's in the bucket. I rise back up, holding the bucket with two hands. I pause, feeling a cold breeze blow in my face. It's a strong breeze, and uncomfortably cool, but it's blowing me away from the chasm. Away from oblivion. I'm grateful to the breeze.

My arms are beginning to suffer under the obscene burden of the bucket. The wire handle is digging into the flesh of my palms and my fingers are going white from deprivation. How long have I been holding this bucket? Why won't I look inside? Why... Why is it so bloody heavy?

My groaning arms and screaming fingers are joined by my snarling back. The chorus is sublime. They sing of pain and desperation, but my mind picks up only a whisper, and the bucket remains in my grasp.

The pain is sharpening my recall. I've been standing at the pit for a very long time. I've been carrying the bucket even longer. It's never felt quite so heavy though. How did it get so heavy? I'm carrying it... It's my bucket. What did I put in there? And why don't I want to look?

My legs are shaking now. A rickety murmur joins the torture symphony. Clarity is my reward. Every time I try to think about what's in the bucket my eyes are drawn to the bottomless fissure before me... I've stood on the precipice of this chasm for as long as I can remember. I don't stand as close as I used to and I sometimes wonder why I come here at all anymore.

My feet are leaden. The weight of my cargo is driving me to shift from one foot to the other. A thumping baseline of dull discomfort. The orchestra ascends. The bucket overflows.

The bucket holds pieces of me. A broken arm when I was seven. A broken heart when I was seventeen. One eye spying only the future, another only the past. Each forever blind to the present. Ears that hear only criticism... A heart that fears.

I tip the bucket over the bottomless pit. The pieces tumble out and into the nothing. It takes a while. The symphony plays out to a diminuendo.

For the first time that I can remember I feel like I can go somewhere else. Anywhere else. My arms, my hands, my back, my legs, my feet... they can sing another song.

I decide to hang on to that rusty old bucket too. You never know when you'll discover something nice and want to bring it along with you.