Peter never stopped running


I am not, as of this writing, eating pizza.

I am, however, drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper.  Both of which I sort of had it in my head would not pass my lips this year. That was probably a bit of an impossible expectation.   My new boss gave it to me for my birthday (along with a lot of other things, but I don’t even know when I mentioned that I drank it) and I just kept it in the fridge, intending to never drink it.  To pour it out.  But I didn’t.  And today, I’ve popped the tab.  Mainly to keep myself from ordering a pizza.

On some level, I’m agitated.  Something I’m eating or doing or something is happening with the where and how I sleep, but I think I’m having a mild allergic reaction.  My face feels flush and hot, though the rest of me feels alright except for the headache and extra tiredness I’m experiencing lately.

I have this feeling like I’m never going to lose the weight.  Not in any measurable way, not to the degree where I would feel like I could relax about it, that I didn’t have to constantly be watching what I’m doing.  But I’ve already had my splurge for the month (or at least for a few weeks here) and I have to understand that eating a whole pizza as though it were some sort of bright line for a fresh start is not wise.   I already feel like, yeah, I could drink another shit-ton of soda.  If there were more, I’d be guzzling it right now.

Should have just cooked my chicken thighs.  Too late now.  Will have to try again tomorrow once I deal with this whole leaving early for my filling situation.  I…

And of course, then, there’s you.  You becoming more Mr. Future-like all the time.  Like a point on the horizon I just can’t quite reach.  Sort of?  Is it just me?  I don’t know.  There isn’t…we’re…I have no idea except that you send me a letter and I feel like everything stops.  I read it and immediately want to write you back.  I feel like I have to mete out how much I want to tell you about everything I like in the universe.  And you give me words which is pretty unbelievable and’s hard to know if I’m generating this one-sided feeling, but every time I sort of half-intimate that, you say something that makes me think otherwise.

And I know that the only way out of this is through it and through it might take a very long time and I know you’re waiting for me to say something, to spark this flash cotton, and the thing of it is, I don’t know that I can.  So we’re in limbo talking about glorious facts and pipe organs and inching our way towards a verbal something we both know can die once it gains dimensions and yet, I send a letter and hope for some sort of instant reply.

It’s making me stress in a way I wanted to stress when I wasn’t dealing with it.  It’s making me aware of all the places I need to reach and the skills I need to pick up.

I wish I had another can of Diet Dr. Pepper.  Or a pizza.   The pizza would be quite amenable.  The pizza wouldn’t play games.  That is the single most depressing thing I have ever written.

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