Guilt by asocialization

I have a guilt complex. I’m not talking about the “we stole their land” guilt complex, nor the “any meager success I have eked out in this harsh world has been on the back of the downtrodden” guilt complex, that is so popular with liberals these days. No, my guilt complex is a towering edifice erecting by my own insecurities and over self awareness. In fact to be accurate, I should call my affliction, a pseudo-guilt complex.
For example:
I may wile away some time window shopping. As I am preparing to leave the store, the fact that I have not purchased anything, makes it clearly obvious that I am a shoplifter. As I reach the street, I am prepared at any moment to be accosted by store security and whisked away for interrogation. I know that they will not find anything; but I well imagine that I reek of guilt and the frustration of not finding anything during a preliminary frisking will goad them into a full body cavity search. The folding umbrella that they saw me inspecting has to be hidden somewhere!
I can be with friends when someone has detected some valuable either missing or vandalized. My reaction is to flush red. I stutter. My eyes dart around often giving off the tell tale signs of the damned looking for a way out. It doesn’t matter that I have an air tight – no – a helium tight alibi, the certainty that I was involved is advertised across my forehead. I marvel at the continued associations I have with these friends when I exhibit such alarmingly suspicious behaviour.
At work, I had been upgrading several computers in a room that contained five of the beasts. The machines were being used by the public, but serendipity had graced me and I was able to complete my work on four. The fifth had been monopolized by a woman working on some sort of project. From my chair across the room I asked her how much longer she would need the machine. She did not answer. I got up and stood beside her. I bent down and a little more forcefully, asked the same question. She did not answer again. She must be deaf I reasoned. I asked a little louder. Although, she would not answer, each time she would stop typing, and give a big sigh as she dropped her head and shoulders. I fled the room as my guilt lashed mercilessly at my haunches. I’m a perverted freaking creeper. I enlisted the aide of a female co-worker and she was able to determine that the woman “will not talk to that man”. I panicked. Surely my wanton depravity was being openly displayed. I sought council with the college psychologist. Although the story of my innocence elicited a kind and tender smile and soothing words of reassurance, that dark black welling up inside me thought I noticed her etch a small red flag beside my name in her binder. The incidence plagued me for days and was only slightly alleviated when I saw the women pushing a heaping Safeway cart around town.
This involuntary vicarious sin is a burden for me. The prospects of me passing through the pearly gates when my stay on earth is measured seem dim. I can only pray that there is a pseudo-hell that is more accommodating than the real one.