Maker’s Breath

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My resolution for 2015 is to put all my appositive phrases in commas.  Maybe I’m being serious about that, maybe I’m not.  It would, I feel, make me a better person.

What I am being serious about is Thursday.  Thursday, Thursday, fucking Thursday, the day that will go down in infamy.  Or in flames, take your pick.  I am going to induce this new version of myself on New Year’s Day just like everyone else in the goddamn world of fools fooling themselves.  Today, I’m going with the ultra-realistic point of view.  No optimism.  Just going to fall out of bed, fall onto my exercise bike (probably while playing the video game, fall into a shake, fall into a glass of water, feel good for a few days about all of this until the third day menace strikes and I decide I hate everything and everyone.  And then, if I get past that point, it will start to feel like I’m doing this rather than the old diet hokey-pokey.  Doomed to failure and all that.

There’s this sort of docking procedure that has to happen, depressurization that must occur.  Part of it is happening now – and we have one more day of willful misbehavior on the docket, but even now I’m letting myself build the memory around me of what it’s like to restart all this.  To pull out the posts with the reasons to attempt to lose 20-40 pounds, to pay attention to the angry parts of my body (I have some, and I think lots of people do regardless of their size or health condition), to start planning ahead.  Because already, Friday, the day after (according to the popular song) Thursday, I am going to a coffee shop.  Where the ideal option for someone doing low-carb, I think, on day two of trying to detox, is tea.  And yet, the thought of ordering tea (which is hot, grassy tasting water) is demoralizing.  I will not be getting a fabulous, frothy, five-hundred calorie, whipped cream-laden coffee extravaganza with shots of caramel and possible psychosis brought on my an excess of caffeine and sugar.  And really, if you’re not going to get something like that, when your money is your money and nobody cares about what’s going down your throat, why get anything at all?  Why not just stare at the wall like an asshole with your arms crossed because nothing will ever be pleasurable ever again?

You may wonder how I get through my day if every decision has a circuitous thought stream attached to it that I have to ride until I’m nauseous or distracted, most often by food.  You may wonder.  I often do.

But nevertheless! The things that happened began, ostensibly, or so I’ve been told.  I want my thing to begin.  And so, I will flail with good cheer and much whining, into the new day.

As for the 500 words a day, that will continue.  Until it doesn’t.  I don’t mean to be abrupt about it, I just need the whole machine to start moving at a pace I can run with.

Also, Alistair Theirin MUST BE STOPPED.

2 thoughts on “Maker’s Breath”

  1. Order a chai. With the cinnamonyness and the frothy milk and such it tastes like dessert but is still tea, and coffee shops make it better than I do

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