Gaseous

My heart feels like it is running out of fuel. It sputters vehemently. Perhaps in a vigorous attempt to postpone the inevitable. It seems that the hearts in my family have a tendency to stop prematurely. This may, in part, explain my escapist nature.

I'm trying to figure out what it is that I precisely want, or rather, need to make me a better person. The list of requirements is awfully short at this moment in time. And, I'm afraid that it will show me up as the ice cube I am. To face one's nature in its complete nakedness, stripped bare of all the trimmings, is not half as bad as the thought of having oneself exposed in front of the scrutinous gaze of strangers. But being an ice cube: should I really care?

At any rate, I'm a little out of sorts. Yes, well. I have just eaten a salad (goat's cheese, spinach, apples, walnuts, honey, sundried tomatoes) and it has made me a tad more than queasy. So. I'm inclined to attribute my nausea, and general feeling of unease, to my grub and my sputtering heart - whose silencing is imminent, I'm sensing...

I've just returned home from work, and today I had a talk with my supervisor. Not one of those "talk" talks, just a regular talk with little, or no, consequences. She was highly curious about how I have experienced working the graveyard shift with my colleague B. - of whose character I had been informed by many colleagues before I had even set eyes on him. Their synopses did not endear him to me immediately, but rather made me extremely wary. Yes, B. I had been told is a very vitriolic man. I was intrigued. It is perhaps needless to say that B. and I did not hit it off. We had a huge blow-up which resulted in my telling him off, and in my thinking him completely embittered by his failure in life, alcoholism, and divorce. Oh. B. did not mind telling his lifestory to me - not even when I showed him through my body language and my not asking after his motives when he disclosed facts of his private life that were "private" - and to me at least - should have remained so for the time being, if not for ever, that I was not in the slightest degree interested. One cannot deny him persistence, at any rate.
At a certain point I had enough. The blow-up ensued. The make-up did not. Well. We managed to patch things up - but it was quite shoddily done, since neither of us had the mental strength to deal with the issue right there and then.

So. Today my supervisor wanted to know "what went down". I told her. I also told her that I'd rather not work with B. Sadly, she could not make me any promises. Soit. I'm used to getting my wishes thwarted by the-powers-that-be; why should it be any other way when the powers are closer to home, and less omnipotent?

I screwed up a lot today at work. I wasn't really focussed. So, in an attempt to divert attention from my failing to meet the standards I showed my colleagues pictures of Britney S.'s vagina - which is making quite a name for itself on the Internet; I think someone's vagina is going to realize that her owner is cramping her style, and decide to get herself an agent and a solo career. Mark my words. We haven't seen the last of Britney's vagina.

We should not waste faith on countless gods
That breathlessly hold their cameras
Directed at our reposing souls.

Nor should we dull the air with prayers
That hang like a mist over our sins
(like the kindness of drunken strangers
that taps us gently on our chins
When we offer them another drink)

Prayers tend to cloud our goodwill:
A supernatural cosmetics
They are in fact sticky tarmac roads
That lead to the same old Rome.

We should learn to grow
Asphodels instead
(To entice the bees
In the black of our eyes)
In the gardens at
The edge of Infinity