Le Chocolatier

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A knot to what might have been before, a knot to what might yet be again.

Nothing like a bout of nastiness to make you look forward to the annual purge.  Nothing like a Sunday night full of waffles and candy to make you reconsider your relationship to reality, to the future, to commitment itself.

I toy with the big ideas of restriction this time of year.  I toy with the ideas of change.  I usually hedge bets, too, and suggest that as strongly as I might want to believe I could do these restrictive challenges, I should expect to fail.

Right now, I am contemplating going a year without fast food starting January 1.  I am contemplating writing daily posts that are limited to diet updates/basic bullet points/progress + a weekly post like this of venting and whatever it is we do here (the remainder of my 500 daily words will be taken up with fiction or writing that I have some dream of publishing.  I am contemplating the weight of my own bullshit against the weight of my own desires.

This is tied, of course, to this tiny idea that I can’t kill.

Maybe I should have some self-esteem.  Maybe I have to do these things outside of a therapist telling me to do them, outside of anyone telling me to do them.  Maybe I am telling myself to do them.  Maybe we can’t set out to stop.  Maybe we can’t plan for the wrong turn.

My teeth feel like you could carve them like limestone.

I have the sort of hunger that feels world-sized.
A distraction, it implies, is required from a world-sized world.

Sometimes it feels as though I cannot move one inch.  But, I still want big, world-sized things.

Doing low-carb again would be a stronger step forward than to simply say I would watch what I eat.  Because I can watch myself eat waffles and truffles and feel disgusting

It has been a hard year.  No one is disputing that.  It has thrown me against the rocks and stolen my lunch money – years worth of it – and it has rattled my ability to just stare myself down in the mirror.  Deadlines and windows and start dates, the ritual helps.  The ritual clears things quickly so that I can get the medicine down my gullet.

If I can get through a 2016 that seemed at times bent on destroying me – I have to get myself to the idea that there’s another side.  A positive, affirming, liveable life out there with my name on it.  I don’t have to, but I’d like to.  I’d so like to.

I don’t think I can relive all of this in a new variation, the dance about broke my legs.

For now, my mother is steady.  I have moved the job and have money to eat and live on and possibly insurance.  I have some artistic visions battering around in my head.  I have a heart that wobbles in my chest. I have blankets on the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

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