Damn it

Mired in self-loathing, bleeding from all of my four major appendages (keep your snide comments to yourself, bucky), and cursing my lack of athletic ability I drove back to Mt. Willis last night. My two major errors in right-center field played a large part in our softball team’s loss. Routine pop flies should be banned. If the ball isn’t routine, at least you have a decent excuse for a bobbled ball. I bled a lot last night. Felt good at times, felt like an idiot on others. Some people should just stick with video games. I don’t think I’ll ever learn.

I had hoped that my teammates had forgotten by this morning. They had not. I resumed my self-loathing and considered hiding under my desk. I find the shade from the flourescents to be quite numbing. I eventually found myself alone and climbed back into my chair. And then I discovered something that I didn’t really want to.

First…a quick reminder of last October…

Melissa’s father made both of his appointments this morning. First the mortuary (a $4000 expense), then an interview with a local TV reporter who is admittedly conflicted.

Little secret about some TV reporters…sometimes we’re not sensationalist vultures.

My problem today…I know a lot more than I feel comfortable telling. For instance, I know the victim in this case was a nude dancer, a single mother who got pregnant when she was 16 and never finished high school. I know she was dating a married man and her family believes that may have contributed to her death. I know that as early as three weeks ago she was telling family members what to do in the event of her death.

But I also know that I sat for 30 minutes today talking with a very Christian man, who spent nine years as a traveling circus clown, who raised this girl since she was one year old, and who can’t say out loud that his daughter was a stripper. She was a poet, a mother, a sister, a daughter.

And now we know one other thing. Melissa was a hooker. She worked for three different escort services at once. Her boyfriend didn’t kill her. A homicidal John did.

I feel sick.

Self-loathing comes in a lot of different forms, it seems. There are times I find myself subscribing to the theory that prostitution is the greatest form of feminist power. It stands as a fantastic symbol of a woman’s power over men and in turn, power over herself. And then there are times…like today…that I find nothing more depressing than a woman selling her body to a man.

On most nights–especially if I have had a few–you can get me started on a long rant about victimless crime. Drugs, prostitution, etc. Why–if a woman wants to sell herself–should she not be able to? If no one gets hurt, what’s the problem?

Melissa got hurt. She ended up dead–wrapped in a hotel bed sheet–in the trunk of her pimped out car. Now I know how she paid for the ride.

Fuck.

I know, I know. People die. People kill people. The leap from one murder to ALL prostitution being evil is a long one. Melissa didn’t kill herself. A sick fuck did. But, damn it, if I didn’t want her to have died doing something else.

I usually like to wrap these pieces up with a theme. I had planned on a nice self-loathing moral. But, screw it. You get the point.