At least we've crossed the threshold of noon. It wouldn't be *morning* drinking.
Shyeah. Am assiduously not-thinking about it. Avoidance is a marvelous thing sometimes. Oh, it's marvy. I drank far less than I'd intended on my business trip, though. In fact, for the past week, there have been several times when I've been too tired to drink. Coma-sleep can be just as addicting as drink, though. This is my unlife. I just cycle from one addiction to another.
I bought new sheets. I had two sets, flannel, and I wore them out. Threadbare and tattered. Enormous holes, right at foot-level. The new sheets are Egyptian cotton, and they shrank in the wash; barely fit around my bed now, though they're ostensibly the correct size. Must try to find a different brand; but the cotton is great, feels fantastic.
Bought a new portable CD player too. I'd put that off for months, even though my old ones were so tragically fucked up that they skipped on just about every song and wobbled the CD so that it sometimes wouldn't even play. I think they may have scratched my CDs too.
I wear things down to their bones. Clothes, shoes, etc. Because I don't have money and/or I'm just too lazy to shop. And then one day I'll blink and realize my shoes are scuffed and stinky and my shirt has an indelible stain and my thrift-store frying pan is a grotesque amalgam of crud and abrasions.
I'm oversharing. Must continue to avoid myself and my thoughts. I live in my head a lot, all the time. And then one day I'll blink out of an internal haze of slashy fantasy and realize that I still exist in the world, that the sky is heaped with cloud strata and glowing down over the Seattle hills like El Greco's Toledo and there's wet leaves plastered in layers all over the streets and the air is like wine. And I realize I'm not *seeing* anything--that half the time I'm just oblivious and blind, lost in trivialities, that I'm almost thirty-five and I don't even *try* to live outside my head anymore, I just cart the body around to buoy the mind. I exist inside a bubble of self, hermetically sealed.
I hate when I can't bring myself to write. It's all I have. I'm just pointless baggage otherwise, a little package of existential junk getting routed from one point to another, birth to death.
I really, really don't want to die. I have huge death issues. That's why I don't pay attention to life. I might get too attached. Everything is scary.
