I may never crack the code for why some days I feel placid and optimistic, while other days it’s monotony and self-loathing. I guess diet is everything but yesterday was no different from any other. Sleep was not peaceful or consecutive. It almost never is except after days of 20,000 steps or other bodily exertions. 

I get to work early mostly to avoid being late. I mean, duh. But it’s also a reflection of the subway schedules. If I’m not a half hour early I would most likely get in with just minutes to spare. But others who work here arrive hours before they clock in, and stay hours after their workday ends. Their lives seem to be lived almost entirely here, at the office.

It’s none of my business, of course, but I sometimes question if they are avoiding something, or if they have nothing to avoid. Is there an enemy at home in the form of an abusive or negligent partner, or is the enemy at home loneliness and silence? My enemy at home has become the monotonous familiarity. I lived and worked there far too long and now I can barely find any happiness there. There is also clutter that I’ve failed to take care of, and an increasing sense that my neighbors will slowly become enemies.

I suspect that today’s serenity comes, once again, from the ever-juggling potion of pharmaceuticals I am told to ingest. I reacted badly to Metformin. It caused rapid heartbeat and minor diarrhea for days. That nay have finally passed, explaining this morning’s feeling of decency. I might try taking it again on Tuesday but who knows. I told the doctor I’d rather try adjusting my diet versus taking more pills but she was just like, here’s another pill. More pills for the potion. I’d be full before breakfast if I took all the pills she’s tried to get into me.

Yesterday I received via USPS a copy of Apology magazine that I’d never seen or possessed. I co-founded that magazine in 1993 (I think) and it continued to publish after I quit and until the death of Allan Bridge (aka “Mr. Apology”). I don’t even know why I bothered procuring this copy. I will dutifully scan it and make it available online, to the delight of absolutely nobody.

The magazine did not really evolve in any way after I quit, save for a few curious flourishes. On the cover of this issue he did not use the original number, 212-255-2748, opting instead for one of the secondary lines. I never called Apology again so I don’t know if there was any explained reason for this.

He also took the liberty of calling Apology “The National Confessional,” which is absurd. I did not look through all the pages closely but it looked like the same sludge he’d been working with when I was there. Mainly trolls and liars for the long form stuff, and seemingly legitimate statements from one-timers. I was instrumental in getting the New Yorker to write an 8-page spread on Apology, and of course it concluded that the primary subject of the article was lying about having killed his mother. At least that’s how I remember it from offhand recollection.

Yes, my fascination with Apology obviously turned sour. I don’t recall exactly when but it had something to do with learning that, contrary to his statements, his was not only not the first of its kind but it followed in a long tradition of using answering machines to host  virtual communities and there was nothing even remotely revolutionary about a telephone confessional. If he differentiated himself from the others it would be in his persistence. This is where I start to imagine I’m carrying on that needless persistence when I could move on to other things.

Other things.