Learning about when British women could get drinks from a pub. The answer is currently unclear. Probably never. This may mean I need to rewrite something. Not sure. Displeased by historical accuracies.
Feeling like a beast that skulks the frozen wastes at the same time I feel like Betty Homemaker, skulking the frozen internet for Huevos Rancheros recipes that have calorie counts. Fuck, sometimes I am over myself. I find myself annoyed by every possible direction my brain wants to run out of this briar patch. Language is failing me.
It is a nice impulse to cry. To reach towards a catharsis rather than shrug it off. There’s been such death, such dark spectres, the feeling of winter if not the weather hanging low and close to me of late. Enough that I want to throw everything out the airlock and, not even start fresh…not even start anything until I can know for certain it won’t curdle under my attentions.
I can work my way out of this. Might just have to get on the bike. Those ten minutes are nothing, probably, if you’re asking for giant weight loss leaps, but they are, also, precious. Vital and restorative. Every time I haul myself up on the seat, I am proving that I can do more than nothing. Something more than sitting in my own despair and circular thinking.
Today – I noticed – and I only noticed because I was tracking that I ordered way less than I normally do from Panera and I felt more full than I usually do. I also figured out that the low-fat mango smoothie I like is so goddamned sugary that it should be illegal. At least in terms of what I’m trying to watch. And that a clementine is often sufficient dessert for me. They’re perfectly ripe right now, as good as any candy. I used to hate it when people would say that, but it’s true. All I wanted to be able to do was track and I’m doing that!
Alright. Endorphins are bubbling up. I’ve been amused by a few clever people on the internet. I’ve gathered a bit of a sense of my own reckless frustration not getting me anywhere and I do, actually, want to go so somewhere. Breathe, the Faithful Light tells me. Now that I have stopped banging pots and screaming, I can hear her clearly. It is not horror! to have a dental appointment in a month. It is not DEVASTATION to have to re-write this scene in one way or another – I’m smart enough to figure that one out. It is not the deepest, most seismic desolation that will cause me to evolve. It is the tiniest of the tiny earthquakes. You don’t even feel the shift, but you keep shaking.
Okay. Okay. Enough.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop, but I haven’t stopped today.
No more rhapsody. It was funny. The fact the boss called me to laugh that she had figured out why the skin on her feet was so dry. The creepy delight I am taking in a Twitter joke and some YouTube videos. Eddie Izzard. You laugh or you revert into the primordial muck.