Sins & Virtues

I am an evil person.

Seven deadly (incomplete) Sins

1. Lust
   

   No. No. I'm not going to talk about lust. Well, I won't talk about my own personal experiences with lust. I will talk about the late night sleep over conversations with my best friend and our arguments over whether or not teenagers can feel love. "At our age it's only lust" she would say so cynically. I wouldn't believe her. I'd find some sort of conclusion to prove otherwise, later in the night. "Adults don't get better at understanding the distinction between lust and love…" I'd say, with a killer conclusion in mind. "52% of marriages end in divorce." You can't deny the truth of a statistic, I'd think, and feel so superior. Proof that love exists! Or that it doesn't… but that it can, sometimes, for teenagers as much as adults. Although, always the devil's advocate, I'd remind myself that 99% of high school sweethearts remain just that—high school sweethearts. I'm not going to talk about the first person I thought I was in love with, or, to take an opposing view, the first person I was in love with. I will mention, in passing, just casually, and without any emphasize or emotion, how, when I visualize him now, I see a knife jutting out of his head. I wouldn't even tell you that occasionally when I wake up from a nostalgic dream it sometimes takes me a few seconds to remember that I don't love him anymore. I hate him. Yes. Where's that knife? Or the first person I lusted after, I won't talk about that either. I don't want to revisit the humiliation, so I won't talk about any of it. I'll just remind you, respectfully, that it's not nice to gossip. So don't tell anyone these things I didn't just tell you, kay?
   

   
    

2. Gluttony
   

   "Fat is not an emotion." I don't know what that means, but I continue to stare at the minimalistic piece of paper tacked up to the cork board on the first floor of the Coop. My face falls. "I'm fat," I think, still unsure of what the sign means.
   

   Then I wake up. No-I'm not fat. I could be skinnier, but legally, medically, I'm not fat. Therein lies the problem, I think, when I get closer to the sign I see more writing: Colgate University Eating Disorder Group. I wondered how many other people had at one time thought to themselves, "I'm fat" later to end up skipping the most important meal of the day. Then the second most. Then the small, low calorie midnight snack. Then the everything.
   

   I fortunately, was spared from that. Food is delicious. I don't think there's anything wrong with eating. And I can definitely think of more reasons to eat than to not to eat. Just off the top of my head, living. Living's a good reason to keep eating. One time I stumbled into my sister's food diary from her formative, high school years. I was shocked. Had she really only snacked on a single apple for an entire day?! And she was skinnier than me. She wasn't fat, ever. Was I?
   

   "I don't feel fat" I tell myself, reassuringly, sucking in my gut.
   

   Ah. Feel. I feel fat. The sign finally made sense to me. But you really can't feel fat. I feel sad that I'm fat. But I'm really not. I'm not. Am I?
   

   
    

3. Greed
   

   When I was five I stole a stack of post-it notes from a small store. They were returned the next day. I still feel guilty. I recall my mom making a large fuss about it, though if you asked her about it today she probably wouldn't remember. It was a crummy store; I remember that much at least, with a bunch of cheap trinkets and bad, fluorescent lighting. But cheap trinkets are exactly what five year olds collect. How much crap did you accumulate simply from being a small child who liked to beg for things, even though you really weren't sure what they did? WHAT USE would a FIVE YEAR OLD have for post-it notes? I've got to remember my busy schedule… of playing around… so post-it notes will help me organize my cluttered life. Or hey, I'd really like to practice writing my name on post-it notes because I don't get enough of that in kindergarten. And still I'm so ashamed. Whenever I'm asked if I've ever stolen anything, I either lie (more sin!) or must confess that I have. I am tainted by an unclean record—all because I couldn't keep my hands to myself when I hadn't yet developed an understanding of money. How badly did I want those post-its? Why hadn't I learned yet that I was living in America? Not some communist country where, theoretically, you can take whatever you want?
   

   And now I have to suffer the consequences. Games of ten fingers can be lost by my past. "Never have I ever…" I wait silently, "stolen anything." I put a finger down. People stare. I feel uncomfortable. I was only five! I wasn't some amoral shoplifting teen trying to steal lipstick. I had become transfixed with the pretty colors of a playful post-it note pack. Oh, if only I could return in time and stop myself from stealing in the first place. Then I'd be free.
   

   
    

4. Sloth
   

   It's been about six days since I managed a full night of sleep. Nearly a goddamn week. My eyes reflect the internal choppy conflicts of my exhausted mind—they shake, jump, refocus, unfocus, shatter. It is hell to keep them open, and I don't know why I insist on seeing everything. Very little of it is important.
   

   I'm floating. Right now, levitating specifically. I believe it was the Romans that first defined the two actions differently. Floating involves movement. I am not moving. I am standing, still. I cannot feel any sensation in my hands or legs, though I'm nearly positive they're still there. I can't see them though. Remember my eyes? They've shattered. Remember? I don't.
   

   And those Romans? They never said that.
   

   A mid-winter gust of air strikes across my face as I stand on a cemented path in mid-autumn. They probably never even existed. Some sort of lie to convince people of the importance of western history. My eyes revive. Leaves fall around me. They are vibrant. My face is not. I can't remember why I'm standing in the quad—can't remember the date or time, the last person I talked to, or the last time I went to my bed and actually slept.
   

   
    

5. Wrath
   

   I clench my fists, hidden away in happy, pleasant, warm mittens. My music is turned up too loud, I know. I don't want to hear anything as I walk to class, because I know that anything could set me off. My breathing is short, my gait is incomplete; my eyes wander. Frost has collected on the grass of the quad as ravens and squirrels crunch the grass as they move around, in search of food. And all I want is a megaphone.
   

   It's only 8:20 in the morning and I want a megaphone. I want to shout across over the quad and wake up the freshmen still sleeping in their dorms. I want to distress teachers preparing for their classes in their quaint academic offices. I don't want to be the only person losing sleep and concentration over this matter. I want to be heard, because I'm tired of being seen as a thing, not even human—without a voice. I've become some sort of mangled idea that everyone has unclear thoughts about. And I'm sick of it.
   

   I'd hold the megaphone in my mittened hand; scroll the volume to max, to yell. I'm going to tell everyone exactly what to think about me.
   "What the fuck?! It's 2008! AH!"
   Steam would condense directly in front of my mouth and lift up into the atmosphere, leaving only the sound to reverberate against buildings. My scream would send me, hunched down, to my knees. But I'd keep yelling until stopped by sobs. Tears fill up my eyes. My face is simultaneously fire hot and ice cold. Maybe I wouldn't be crippled by my frustration. Maybe it would fuel me to keep yelling. I can see it now, people who should be walking, stopping, to stare. They stare all the time anyway, at me. Because I must be some kind of extra-human. Not extraordinary. Just something else.
   

   "Why can't you ever just stop ruining lives? You just take and take and take. What have I done? What could I have possibly done to deserve the fear that hangs over my head at all times in my life? I'm a good person. I'm a moral person. I don't understand why, simply because I'm dark, I have to be subjugated to this fucking nonsense. How much longer? How much longer will this last? How long can your incompetence cause pain?"
   

   I probably wouldn't be able to talk so coherently for so long. Most of what I feel is unintelligible.
   

   "What have we ever done to you? Why must you destroy us then continue to destroy? Fucking slavery wasn't enough? Then we all moved through the horrors of a so called Reconstruction. Then the civil rights movement, where you killed how many people who looked enough like me?"
   

   I don't even know what I look like. I spent my youth looking at myself in mirrors trying to figure out which parts of my face belonged to my mom, which parts to my dad. I didn't see any particular color staring back at me. But I guess it makes a lot of fucking difference.
   

   "And yet you still want more? You burn down churches and you continue to threaten. But why? I won't understand your failed logic. This country breeds the immoral."
   At this point, one can only assume that I am insulting the entire student body that is now standing in front of me. They don't try to calm me down, or take away my megaphone. They just stand silently, watching me.
   

   "As a moral person I won't stand for this. God give me a crowbar so I can take down this hatred with violence. Peace won't resolve this issue. Clearly only death will."
   

   That shouldn't have been said, clearly, but I'm angry for more than just myself.
   

   "How can I ignore all of this? I thought I could, but I can't. And I won't. My children don't deserve the level of injustice I've felt brought against me. And in their names, I would destroy everything to deliver onto them the simple promise of happiness in life."
   

   But killing is wrong. A megaphone is just annoying. And a daydream accomplishes nothing.
   

   
    

6. Envy
   

   Jealousy is a strong emotion—a potent combination of anger, greed, and disillusionment. Evolutionarily it is supposed to motivate towards self-betterment. I must be broken because the only thing jealousy motivates me to do is break people's faces. I know I can't improve myself as easily as I can destroy others.
   

   Case in point—I am not a particularly fast swimmer. I could've been, had I not been afflicted with diabetes. I would complain more about it, but all you really need to know is that every morning, when you wake up, as you eat breakfast, you're a damn fool if you're not thanking god for being able to eat whatever you want, whenever you want it.
   

   Anyway, I believe that had I not contracted such an awful disease, I would've been a pro. Instead, I am forced to suffer through low rate, hardly D1 training schedules, and the inability to get any faster. When I see my bipolar coach getting all buddy buddy with one of our top swimmers during practice, I feel as though I could completely lose it. Why do they get all the benefits? Why doesn't he give them shit that they're not perfect? They aren't. Their strokes make me feel nauseas. That could've been me. That should be me. No one's worked as hard as me. No one's run into so many obstacles. And where's my congratulation? Where's my thanks? It's things like this that make me want to break in my coach's car windows.
   

   
    

7. Pride
   

   How is pride a sin? I don't understand that. I always thought pride was a good thing. I have pride in what I am and in what I do. Maybe it's all-consuming pride. Maybe it's pride that ends up making you envious of others. I don't compare myself to others with my pride, though, because I have never met anyone who has the same things to be proud about. The Greek word for destructive pride is hubris. I wonder if that's the sin; a pride that causes the gods to hate you (maybe because they have nothing to be happy about—those Greek gods were miserable human beings). Regardless, enough about Greek gods, let's talk about me.
   

   My arms are six feet, three inches long. That's something I'm proud about.
   

   My parents were both straight A students, that's something I'm regrettably proud about.
   I listen to awesome music.
   

   I own a pair of purple pants.
   

   I watch cartoons and I am 19 years old.
   

   One time, probably, though I'm not aware of it, I saved somebody's life.
   

   How's that for great? I used to suffer depression something fierce. Then I realized something, I'm not an awful person. True, I could be better, but if that could is keeping me from happiness, forget it.
   

   Another thing I don't understand about pride: Black pride. If it's so bad to have pride, why is black pride so far spread? And gay pride? Maybe being attacked gives you something to be proud about. Hurrah! We're still here! Take that world! I feel like being attacked makes me tired—how much more? Does all of life need to be an uphill struggle? I don't want to be proud that I can withstand a lot of suffering.
   

   Though I really haven't done anything else… I've gotten good grades, but grades don't matter. I've been swimming for the past 14 years, but as I'm not an Olympian, I'm going to say that swimming doesn't matter either. People like me. I'm friendly. Not important. I'm smart. Don't care. I'm responsible. Big deal.
   

   But you've got to be proud of something. Or else how do you look at yourself everyday and not cry? You could just not look. Or you could just not cry.
   
   

I am not an evil person.

Seven heavenly, short, virtues

1. I know they exist, but I really couldn't think of any short anecdotes to prove that I followed any of them.