Aug. 26th, 2010

kellista: (Default)
Well, partner's been away for a month and a half and my stream of summer houseguests have meandered back to their respective towns, leaving poor l'il me to do things like finish two video games and engage in a war of attrition with the fruitflies and binge eat pancakes and maple syrup for all of a weeknight evening! On the subject of the latter, no, I am not ashamed to admit fishing the cherry red mixing bowl out of the sink in order to make just one more tiiiny batch (for me)(and the enthusiastic muppet-pup). Yes, child, you may indeed have some more!

I am continually amazed by my own lack of impulse control. I think there's a part of me that is, like, "fuck it, I'm a radical empirically minded critical thinker. I'll just have to see for myself the veracity of commonly held assumptions re: the human tendency to justify doing (more) cocaine mo matter how unjustifiable this course of action /taking on four jobs simultaneously /eating one's largest and-or only meal of the day at 2 am before passing out /heading to bed just as the construction workers are starting to dirty their denim outside my window /continually carrying four books and two crossword puzzles on one's overtaxed back justincase (you know, sciency nonfiction; politicalish nonfiction, narratively-driven fiction i can zoom through, losing track of time; challenging 'crafted' fiction that inspires self-doubt and awestuckness; notebook; a periodical or two - it adds up fast!)". Everybody knows, I start to think, that routine is a soul-crushing not-thinking for the purpose of railroading oneself into doing things one would really rather not do, right?! Oh, I vacillate so. It complicates things slightly to realize that one's thinking tends towards bored and flawed at times, neurodiversity and square pegs and all that.

Anyhow, it is five eleven in the morning and I am, natch, at my solitary overnight workplace, making dulce de leche in a four hour process of simmering, savouring Granta like so much foie gras (creative writing, appetite, the nature of suffering), reading blogs and wondering why my own personal narrative is so self-defeating and constantly at the surface, trying to discern the life variables resulting in 'okay' and 'not-okay' respectively, mulling over joining the 24-hour gym that's a short block from our place or perhaps instead 'investing' in 'therapy', doing more work than I really need to, listening for bumps in the night. I have been patronizing the 7-11 much more than I am comfortable with or feel okay about. I have neither been shitting nor getting off the pot.


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