I suppose, in the end, my recent alienation is my fault. It still stings, though. Stings when I wake up, stings when I’m in the shower, stings when the wind whips at my face on my long, cold trek to work. I shouldn’t have done it. I know it. Though I can’t help but think my punishment is…overstated, perhaps, I also know that in the end my actions were the crime that caused it. My daily reminders are like twin daggers in my belly, the discomfort of a cold look from my wife, coupled with the knowledge that it’s all my fault. I have tried to make amends. Lord knows I’ve tried to make amends. Every day of my life is another attempt to repair things. Many times this feels like sticking a piece of gum over a failing dam, or tending to a broken arm with string and aluminum foil, but it’s really all I know how to do. The other option, lying in bed and crying all day, doesn’t pay the bills. No matter how much I wish it did. And so I’ll continue crying on the inside. Weeping silently at the copy machine or in line at Burger Town. But I’ll remember, too. Just as surely as my wife and the other shiftless layabouts I call friends remember in their gazes and tones in our daily interactions, I’ll remember. I’ll hold onto my little shard of hatred—wincing when I squeeze too hard and it pierces my fingers—and I’ll let that fuel me through the rest of this gray slog I call life. I’ll remember their initial reaction, the shock and anger they displayed in dealing with me. I’ll remember their ensuing coldness. I’ll remember the shadow government that seemingly runs my life now, the way the consult and conspire only when I’m out of earshot. I’ll remember it because, without the memory, living doesn’t have much of a point, as sad as that is to say. Friends, roommates, wife: I am sorry for drinking the last Diet Pepsi. May I suffer for my transgressions.