Confessions of a Pessimist

putting together a portfolio

 

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I have forgotten you purposely and I'm not ashamed to admit that your fanfare does not impress me. I no longer believe in your fundamentals of love, loyalty, and valor, and as much as I attempt to convince myself that you do not exist, I know that you do, and strangely, that is what angers me most. This sinister waltz that you direct, gliding on blind hope and faith. My feet alongside your own, yet you purposely…constantly stepping on mine with your left foot of morality and right of devotion. But who am I to remain devoted to?

 

Confession 1:

 

I slide the silver coated key into the doorknob and gain entry into my apartment. There is about a shot left in the bottle of Hennessey that sits in its own water ring. The adjacent glass mimics the alcohol bottle and adds to the chaos of the room. The decorative pillows seem to belong on the linty wool area rug rather than their home in the chaise. Scattered, are pages among pages of what should be a novel by now, but has clearly began to blend with the décor. I throw my tote to the ground, slide my aching feet from my "way to expensive" Cole Haan loafers and loosen the hanging noose from my neck. I grab the CD player remote from the coffee table…point…play…Vivaldi. I continue to peel away the mask of corporate America; pencil skirt first, then my button down shirt, belt and earrings. Relaxation.

 

I walk past my minuscule office into the kitchen. There's a message.

 

One new message.

 

"It's me." It's has always irritated me when people began messages that way. There is always bad news after.

 

"Bianca…" There is a dead pause, she's thinking, trying to find the right words, the most sincere words. I'll give her that much she always tries to consider my feelings.

 

"You know that I love you," she always starts like this, "but I can't be locked down. You've seen me with women…" Her voice trails. She's thinking too much, trying not to hurt me.

 

"But…I'm not ready.  I'm not ready to be tied down again. I'm sorry."

 

End of Messages.

 

I could turn her into some shameless, selfish no name individual. I could describe call her numerous obscenities, practically deplete her personality, prying at her every flaw, but I can't do that. I'm in love with her. In...apart of, with…all synonyms of inclusion. I delete the message. It acts only as an affirmation of things that I've felt for months. She seems surprised, I'm not.

 

She says she loves me, and in all honesty, I believe that she does, but that sense of inclusion that I yearn for is missing. The single coils in her hair ignite my senses; remind me of true passion and the softness of her lips, though I've only felt them once sends Morse code down my spine. I grab the Hennessey bottle from the table and devour the last of the thick liquid clearing my mind of the clutter depicted in my not-so-humble abode.

 

 

Confession 2:

 

            We were once friends, she and I. Now she just glares at me from her cubicle hating more every time I pass by. "Good Morning Ms. Nelson." She glares at me forcing a cynical reply. I'm used to it now, though I never saw this side when we were friends.

 

I've been accused of many things in my life. But in the last three months I've been accused of not only stealing the job that rightfully belonged to her, but for stealing her girl as well. I remember the text like it was yesterday.

 

Oh, I see. Now I get it. So you're the reason she left me! Are you the b***h she's in love with?

 

I didn't answer. I'm in love with her girlfriend. But as always when people decide to divulge secrets they always tend to forget simple details. Like the fact that though she was indeed her girlfriend at the present time, that she was also my ex-girlfriend of the last three years, and though their three month fling happened within my presence, I never made any qualms, verbally anyway.

 

You are no friend of mine, you disloyal, immoral b***h.

 

She continued with the texts, disassembling my character. Renaming me a thief, a jezebel and praying that the lord help her to forgive me. I chuckled at that text. She had instantly become a saint, immediately a victim, now vindicated to judging me.

 

Confession 3:

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I have forgotten myself purposely in an attempt to live up to your code of morality. I believed in your fundamentals of love, loyalty, and valor, and as much as I attempt to live by them and make those around me happy, I remained unhappy. But once I decided to live for myself, I've become the opposite of your good graces. This sinister waltz that you direct, gliding on blind hope and faith I  refused to follow, leaving me with aching feet but devotion to myself.