I had a shredded, BBQ Beef Sandwich out of the Sanese vending machines. It cost $1.75. I also had a styrofoam cup of free coffee that the warehouse provides for us. As is my pathological custom, I carried my lunch to a secluded, non-designated luncheon location in the warehouse, like usual over the grated flor and leaning against the coated steel shelves of the rarely visited end of Zone S on the 2nd tier. In my makeshift dining area, I chewed and really agonized over all my human interaction in the warehouse of this morning and early afternoon as always. And as usual I wept a few tears involuntarily in self pity realizing from the pathetic evidence of my interactions with others that I had no hope of being the kind of man that could take care of a woman, and that I did not in any way deserve Tammi. The constant fear is that society intervenes, its heralds in the dim shepe of familiars descending upon her with "You can do better". And she can because I can fix her car, can't argue with a bill collector, can't do anything really, can't clear brush, can't tell a black youth proclaiming she's is fin to chill, dog, can't take charge, can't make action, can't proscribe a course. I just hate being unworthy don't you? Every weekend I pray I'll drinki enough to find a core backbone with enough sense and fortitude to kill myself. But never. Cowardice keeps me alive. I'm certain of that, though I've never b eeen certain of anything useful to the negotiation of live. Cowardice= living onward. Life is the coward's way out.