B e l u g a

My scarred elbow sticks to the chewy pleather of my office chair. Gwen came to visit me during the workday. My supervisor bleated I'm Sorry! She's Not Allowed To Be Here. My top-secret work space.

The lead editor at Cock Star Games dislikes me. He ignores my work. He makes his point by not ignoring me. My paranoid side acknowledges the passive aggression.

There is unresolved suffering. I don't know myself. Family illness peaked in Cambridge, England. I was a teenager. I learned to distrust the soft, crisp accents. This is the crux of my struggle. How to move from the definition of my own identity? Snapping out of the blue gate of the autumn sky. I go to work. I put on my work face. I smile at the lead editor. I get by.

In the evening there is a gin and tonic and a baked potato. I am nearly 37 years old and I have to search for how to make a baked potato.

B a r b i t u a t e . . .