Mortal Sin

There's no escaping it. I killed a mosquito last week. Just plucked the fucker out of the air and blursted it in my hand. Now today, I saw the hugest wolf spider I ever seen, as long as the last segment of my pinky finger and twice as ornery. Which raises questions I can't get into just now, but now this. Now walking home from next door- see, I can have just a beer and then go home- and this, this air. The warm, virginal purity of it. It makes me want to pluck daisies, drop them on the ground, and stomp them. To deflower and to defile. This can mean only one thing.
It's spring now, and I am overcome by the primal vernal zest- dareIsay lust? for life.
But I can't. I can't go ambulating about town 'til all hours just because I can. Wait. I can't go romping about town 'til all hours even though weather permits. Which is a sin, not to take advantage of what'll be like one of three damn nights so nice, a sin against human nature.
But it would be a greater sin against my own selfinterest to slack. The hammer is whacking, the pressers depressing the wares on the conveyor belt clacking, and I can ill-afford any slacking. So here I am. Inside, breathing stale pre-breathed air. Malos Aires.
Scylla and Charybdis. Story of my christless life. I sometimes idly speculate that no one understands ambivalence as well as I.