Sympathy

I think I'm experiencing pregnancy sympathy hormones in honor of Taufling. I'm a weeper by nature, but it's even worse these days. This in combination with working late is never, ever a good thing. It's like beer before liquor. Staying here past office hours always plunges me into an awful state: I'm tired, I'm trapped, and I'm putting my college degree to work assembling three-ring binders. My freedom is dependent upon the inefficiency of other people. If you don't drive home in tears after eighteen hours of this, you're in need of a need of a near-death experience or a bender or both.


The phones are set on night ring and it echoes through the empty offices as Orlando sleeps below. I stream talks shows through tinny computer speakers and all of a sudden I'm back in Cape Canaveral, driving island to mainland and back after midnight, selling roses in bars to cover the full cost of three different prescriptions. A couple hours ago I was flipping through a pile of resumes, and tears welled up when my eye caught the word "Kentucky." I've never lived there, but my parents' home faces it across the Ohio River. I cried for something I never knew; a Churchill Downs afternoon or a flying run through fall leaves. Then I took a closer look at the resume. The word I had been crying over was "Keenhouse." "Kentucky" had never been there at all.


November 20, 2003

Mary Beth is an introvert.

She is eager to communicate but prefers doing so via email, a giant stage, or intense conversation about Important Things.

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