This is probably one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever read: the account of prisoner abuse in Afghanistan . The piece is based on a report, smuggled to the Times, regarding two detainees who died in 2002.

The details make me wonder why it is we even bother, as humans, to attempt to better ourselves when such abhorrent behavior is allowed, even encouraged, to exist anywhere on this earth:

“At the interrogators’ behest, a guard tried to force the young man to his knees. But his legs, which had been pummeled by guards for several days, could no longer bend. An interrogator told Mr. Dilawar that he could see a doctor after they finished with him. When he was finally sent back to his cell, though, the guards were instructed only to chain the prisoner back to the ceiling.

“Leave him up,” one of the guards quoted Specialist Claus as saying.

Several hours passed before an emergency room doctor finally saw Mr. Dilawar. By then he was dead, his body beginning to stiffen. It would be many months before Army investigators learned a final horrific detail: Most of the interrogators had believed Mr. Dilawar was an innocent man who simply drove his taxi past the American base at the wrong time.”

Seems Bagram is where prisoners start their long and, literally torturous, journey through the U.S. system, with many heading on to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

The Bush Administration decided the Taliban do not deserve the rights accorded by the Geneva Conventions.

This is what we have become.

“One of the coroners later translated the assessment at a pre-trial hearing for Specialist Brand, saying the tissue in the young man’s legs “had basically been pulpified.”

“I’ve seen similar injuries in an individual run over by a bus,” added Lt. Col. Elizabeth Rouse, the coroner, and a major at that time.”

I could quote from it, but it really must be read in its entirety.

Everyone must read this. How long will our complacency allow this?

No really, I’m not dead. I swear. Nor undead. Fear not… in fact, the truth, the awful, hideous truth behind my electronic absence is as mundane as can be: the TV.

I’ve allowed myself to be sucked into the void for days now, just watching, vegetating, bonding with my Friends.

Allow me to explain my transgressions:

Work sucks.

Having no work sucks more.

Having no work, knowing you need work, having no money and attempting to bide the time while a tsunami-sized wave of depression washes over you, forcing you to ruminate on the fact that yes, you do indeed have lots of skills and education, yet the dude down the street drying off cars at the drive through car wash has more disposable income than you, and possibly far less stress, can kill any sort of urges – creative or otherwise – that might attempt to manifest themselves in your cerebellum.

Thus, I have taken up temporary residence on the ground floor and parked myself on the couch, in front of the tube, while attempting to get through a book my ex-roomie Lydia suggested to me: What Should I Do With My Life?

Of course, in my poverty-stricken state, I well could not afford to run down to Borders and purchase such a frivolous waste of paper when the question I need to be asking is What Corner Should I Stand On To Make Enough To Pay The Rent?

Ironically, though, I’ve had it in my possession – a leftover from my newspaper-editor-free-deluge-of –crap-in-the-mail-on-a-daily-basis days. So, I’ve drug it out, cracked it open… and learned nothing except I cannot fill out the book meme, as Mags requested, as, well, I’m an idiot and do not read books.

But, hey, Will & Grace don’t seem to mind…

I should confess, however, that I am actually working as a temp, which is somewhat entertaining. Especially today, when I was asked to photocopy a bunch of things. I smiled, said sure, and laughed all the way to the copy room at the fact that the woman who handed me the stuff has no idea the company’s paying an outrageous sum of money, the cost of a good pair of shoes, per hour for me to walk down the hall and press “Start” for her.

Ah, yes, the master’s degree means your temp agency makes a bigger profit on your coffee pouring skills…

But, back to the important stuff. The quest: it goes on, and on, and on, and quite frankly, I do not want to have to go through arthritis, menopause or a broken hip while still looking for the proverbial thing I want to do when I grow up.

I swear it’s the one steps forward two steps back rule, and at the rate I’m going I’ll be taking the SATs again before too long.

However, I’m getting closer, a combination of reasons, a bunch of stars aligning, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit to do with the stupid book forcing me to remember why and how I started on this crazy so-called non-traditional journey in the first place, how I’d always imagined myself when “I got older” (ah yes, that phrase is starting to get as outdated as my wardrobe and should probably be replaced with “no time like the present”), what I wanted to do, what I love to do, and how I can make it all work without uttering the dreaded BFA-holding worker bee line, “You want fries with that?”

I am terrible.

I have a problem, something deep seated and so fully entrenched in my psyche as to be fused, as one… blah blah angst blah….

Okay. Truth is: I procrastinate.

‘Yeah, sure, everyone does,’ you may be thinking, nonplussed.

It gets worse.

I’m procrastinating writing. Writing! The thing that I do for a living. That writing.

Which is also rather ironic in that I am the maniac who can bang out the electronic equivalent of a magnum opus in the time it takes Britney Spears to get preggers, leaving countless email recipients reaching for the Tylenol, or vodka, or both (but please people, if it’s both stick to Ibuprofen – acetaminophen turns livers to dust) while shaking their heads wondering if I inject methamphetamines directly into my eyeballs.

I do not.

I do, however, type as fast as I think, and while at many times in my long and storied life this has gotten me into trouble when the ‘send’ button is a mere click away, the minimal amount of actual speaking I do in my day-to-day existence is taken onto the page. Fast.

Except for right now…

Yet, seeing as it’s not yet the 11th hour (I just filed for extensions on my taxes – ha ha! Four more months to procrastinate on that one. Score….ish…. I could use that money….) I’m going to celebrate this lovely, breezy spring day by rolling around for several hours on my bike… Thinking, of course, of what I’ll eventually have no choice but to write….

I swear.

Open bottle of merlot in hand, world renowned writer, journalist and all-around aging badass E.S.B. announced to the world that she was unceremoniously sacked from her position as development associate at —— Inc. as of April 1, 2005.

“I thought it might be an April Fool’s joke,” she explained at a press conference on Wednesday, April 6, at the Netherhouse, her Philadelphia residence. “Unfortunately, the workaholic sticks in the mud who hired me have neither the time for nor the understanding of a sense of humor.”

With that, the writer vowed her rocky journey from chain smoking art school darling to legitimate worker bee would continue on, despite this latest setback.

“I think this might be one of those defining moments, the kind that make talking heads like Katie Couric go into convulsions of ecstasy,” she explained over Yuengling at local West Philly watering hole Dahlak.

“You know, the kind where you get to lean in all serious-like and say, with wide-eyed earnestness, ‘It was at that moment, with nothing more than a bunch of degrees from really expensive private schools and thousands of dollars in student loans to my name, I had to make a choice…

“’I had to decide whether to take the proverbial path less followed, or just find another job. And, well, Katie, I had to follow my heart, my soul down the path to worldwide fame, and, no, I’ve never looked back.’”

When asked what’s next for this cheerleading captain turned bike messenger turned hellraiser, the answer is less clear. “Money’s definitely a consideration, especially since I was the third person to be fired at —— a week before hitting the 3 month mark and thus missing out on unemployment. But, I also have to think of where I want to be in one, five, 10 years, and, honestly, I’m not getting any younger, and the path to world domination does certainly seem to be getting longer!

“For now, though, I’m polishing my resume, sending out e-mails in the hopes that either a job, sympathy or free food will come out of it, and enjoying this crazy city I live in.”

And, in the interim, she’s keeping busy working on her debut novel, “Yes, I Have Done All That (And You Could Too If You Weren’t So Afraid of Change)” which promises to give that overstuffed blowhard Dr. Phil a run for his opinionated money.

I am very goal driven. I swear, if I don’t have a goal to work toward, I’m useless.

It’s a sad situation, but, thankfully I’ve realized this, before I’m old and gray and laying on my death bed, thinking, “Oh shit…. I haven’t done anything!”

My brother convinced me to run the Utica Boilermaker with him this year — it’s 15K – 9.6 miles. Not too long, not too short, and in the middle of summer, so it’s like hell (and, well, so is Utica so i guess it makes sense… Spent two years there, when we were looking at the first apartment we moved into the big selling point was that it was on the third floor, and crossfire doesn’t usually travel that high).

But, then, I got thinking: why not another marathon? I mean, 9.6 miles…. 26.2. Once you get going, it’s just a matter of keeping going. Not that bad, right? (It’s like childbirth, i think: you just remember the good parts, and don’t remind yourself that invariably you get to the point where you’re sobbing, making deals with god that if he/she makes the hurting stop and gets you through it you’ll adopt a third world orphan or something…)

So, how many weeks do I have to train? I’m totally on it! First step: put an end to the rock’n’roll lifestyle…

Let me just put down my wine and write that down….

I need to not be sitting here. I need to be on the floor, lying on the floor, can of Punjabi chole – in lieu of a small handheld weight – in hand.

In my eternal quest for reinvention, I signed up for a personal trainer – comes free with the gym membership, and I figured it’s time to get the muscles back in shape. They’ve had it pretty easy, time to kick some butt: mine.

Alas, two seconds into my first session I was stopped, brought up short, face squinched as I tried to figure out where the pain was coming from today. I’ve learned to live with it – you live fast and don’t die young, you get squinchy hurty Christ-on-a-crutch what’s that now pain. This time, something about a rotator cuff, and now I’ve got physical therapy-type movements for a month instead of biceps that can crush skulls.

I’ve been hit five times by cars. I’ve got many scars, and now many pains to prove it.

Which leads me to wonder: Is it only gonna’ get worse? And, really, does it matter? I don’t much mind, I’m a hypochondriac, it gives me something to think about, but really, would I trade my life for less pain? Nah. Would I trade my left arm for a lifetime supply of really good pain pills that won’t give me a heart attack, stroke, powdered liver or a tail? You betcha…

• Several Imax theaters are refusing to show movies that mention evolution, fearing protests by opponents of the theory.
• A landmark agreement by former WorldCom directors to paymillions of their own money to settle with investors hasbeen revived about six weeks after it was scuttled.
• As state lawmakers strive to put together a budget,complying with a court order to pump more money into NewYork City’s public schools has been left out of the debate.
• In Russia, those who manipulate capitalism for personalgain are called oligarchs. Here they have a different name: CEOs.

In the meantime, I’m off to watch the “What Not To Wear” marathon while sitting on the couch, self medicating with carbohydrate-laden tasty vegan morsels…