In the confessional

Forgive me, world, for I have sinned. It's been weeks and the guilt is weighing on me. I hope that you and my creator (Blogger) can forgive me.

I was getting ready for work one morning this past August when I heard a pounding noise coming from outside. I looked through one back window and saw nothing. I looked through the other just in time to see what it was: a man running away from an SUV that had a newly-broken window and a dent in the passenger-side door, and a cinder block resting on the ground beside it.

My first thought was—I swear—that I should call 911 and report it. But my second-guessing took it's rightful place as my second thought and I was filled with jaded, cynical conclusions: "I can't even describe the perp beyond 'black guy with a red cap on', and why would 911 in Washington DC care about a simple car break-in when they'll never find the guy who did it? The car owner will report it eventually, and my call isn't going to make a damn bit of difference. So I won't report it." And I didn't.

But I should have reported it, not because it would have resulted in any prosecution or any semblance of justice, but simply because it's like casting a vote against lawlessness and wrongdoing, no matter how small and almost-entirely meaningless that vote may be. And for not voting, I'm deeply sorry and profoundly regretful.

As penance, I'll recite five "Losing My Edge"s and ten "Common People"s. And I offer myself as an example that civic duty should trump cynicism.