Cross, Nails, Hammer--Let's Do It! (12/23/08 Tuesday)

The book survived the throw. Same for the record cabinet. Nothing hurt. Too bad.

Woke up at four fifty years old. That was not the reason I was awake. That's just when I've been waking this month, to the intercranial music of impotent rage. Got the obligatory card at work with the obligatory inscriptions. I tossed it in the recycling. Then I changed the wallpaper on my computer to Patrick McGoohan as No. 6.

I've said I don't want to be a martyr, but I won't let this lie. How could I? Have I had closure or redress or so much as an acknowledgement that I've been wronged? But there I go again. Should I be other than angry and hurt? Not if I feel that. Not if someone can tell me why I shouldn't be. Swept under the rug. I think that's why humans invented rugs--to hide emotion, truth and the Right Thing. It's an awfully lumpy rug. What Pandora unleashed was a dripping faucet compared to the torrent unleashed by a tear in the Hiding Rug. Wouldn't I love to make that cut.

No, it can't just go away. Chris came in exclaiming, "It's Dion's birthday!" I didn't acknowledge him. And I won't before his conscience sweats enough to make him address me about.

On the signup sheet for tomorrow's breakfast, I wrote "Crow." Greta asked if it would be fresh or frozen. I told her, "Leftovers."