My name is Sheila and my life is an open book. I confess to everything.
I’m a telemarketer living in a windowless basement apartment. I live off boiled eggs and macaroni with powdered cheese. I interrupt your dinner with a fake cheeriness, trying to sell you something you don’t want or get you to take a survey that doesn’t interest you. If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t my idea. It’s my job and I’ve got to eat, at least a little.
I have no life and I’ve committed innumerable sins and I just don’t care anymore so here it is.
I stole a bag of potato chips. I removed one of those tags from a mattress. I coveted my neighbor’s wife. I masturbated to a Chippendales’ ad. I walked past an injured bird without helping. I struck a match without first closing the cover. I smoked marijuana. I threw away a parking ticket.
There’s more.
I took the lord’s name in vain—more than once. I skipped brushing my teeth once. I sleep in the nude. I cheated at bowling because that damn pin should have gone down. I lied that I was sick to stay home from work. I don’t vote. I have six toes on my left foot. I never root for the home team.
Actually, only a couple of those things are true. I have a very dull life and a lively imagination.