It's my last week at THE PAPER. Thank fucking god.

I'm not knocking THE PAPER; it's a great place to work. But I sit in the newsroom for hours, consumed by anxiety at watching the things I really care about become marginalized. I have done it long enough. And in the process I have saved up enough money to live jobless in Costa Rica for months, just writing. I will write no more obituaries or births or campus news. And no more sorting mail; I'm 27-years-old and I have spent 2 ˝ of those years sorting mail and fetching faxes for reporters who are, in some cases, younger than me.

When sorting fucking mail, I see the gifts sent to the reporters by public relations firms hoping to buy positive exposure; free CDs, tickets to events, magazine subscriptions. Journalistic ethics dictate that these gifts must be returned or donated to charity. But today, while sorting their fucking mail, I came across a rattling envelope and I opened it to find a red pocketknife on a key chain, and I kept it. I stashed it in my bookbag thinking, "I might need this in Costa Rica." That reflexive thought made me sick in the heart. It can't be the right attitude to have when embarking on a supposedly liberating experience.

I'd always heard that Costa Ricans will steal your false teeth given the chance, but that they're non-violent, and if you catch them with their hand in your mouth they'll run away like silverfish in the bathroom light (the same way I would in the face of physical confrontation). But today, some lady at the courthouse told me that Costa Rican men will kill you if you look at their women. Since I have never been anywhere, and I know nothing of the world, I'm left wondering if she was correct. If so, I will need a pocketknife to protect me from my own eyes.

Even when I'm in alien New York, I hold my keys between my knuckles as I ride the subway, ready to unlock the throat of anyone who encroaches; I can't fathom what might happen to me in another country, alone.

But could I ever really stab someone? I've never even been able to punch anyone, save one kid who picked on my sister when I was 12-years-old.

Two years ago, I had my heart set on fighting that young lad who was sleeping with MY EX-GIRLFRIEND before her and I broke up. She deserved it more than him but my thinking was, 'He knows she's my girlfriend. He knows she's confused and he's taking advantage of our weakness.' So, I'd lie in bed crying, talking out loud trying to formulate the most powerful way to ask him to step outside when I eventually saw him out a show or something. But I never did see him, not when the iron was at its hottest.

But I still sometimes have anomalous flashes of violent hatred when I think of him. It's still so alive that one night last week, as I languished in the drunken space between sleep and wake where dormant thoughts fade in and out, I thought of him, and I promised myself silently: "If I see him out before I leave for Costa Rica, I will do it. If god brings him to me, it is a sign that I should deck him." I remembered the promise when I woke the next day and it still felt feasible. And while holding onto something for that long sounds petty, I've never picked a fight so I feel like, if hatred is still around after all this time, then I should just let it have me when the time comes. If it still wants me.

Two nights after my promise to myself, he was at OUR BAR. A fucking miracle. Right fucking there. If just seeing him out was a sign, then the timing was god or Mother Nature or whoever, saying, 'All right tough guy; here ya go.' But I couldn't muster up the rage or cou-rage. All I could do was look for ugliness in him, look at his ass and think, "Man, he has a flat ass." Or, "Why is he wearing that baseball hat? Maybe he's gone bald. She told me he was going bald." In the end I did nothing but leave OUR BAR earlier than I'd planned, feeling silly but grateful that I hadn't bragged to anyone, 'Man, if I see that motherfucker out before I leave…'

So how the fuck could I ever stab anyone? Over my laptop? Over a woman? I'd rather just run. When you're twelve-years-old, the worst that can happen is a little blood. But physical altercations, at my age, involve years of built up dissatisfaction and anger, bad jobs and unfaithful lovers, all projected into the toe of one boot to the face, resulting in toothless mouths and white hospitals and damp jails. By their late 20's, most men have stored enough bitterness that, given an outlet, their negative energy could kill. If I got in a fight with some stranger right now you can bet that somewhere, on my side, helping me, would be that kid who fucked my girlfriend nearly three years ago.

I dunno. I guess I need to go and see the world, so I can know what to be scared of. But I can't help fearing a fate worse than sorting mail.

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