Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

testing my limits

Man. All these tiny posts. It's like when you say, "I'll just have one little cracker with some cheese," and an hour later, you're on the floor with your legs ragdolled out to each side, crumbs littering the hostess's carpet around you, cheese smeared violently across one cheek, your eyes vacant and horrified...

Yeah. Like that.

I was supposed to go out tonight, to a bar with my co-workers, to say goodbye to Z. His last day was today. But instead I came home after the gym and lay down in my dark room and napped and had dirty sex thoughts. (Not involving cheese, or Z., or peanut butter pie, or my grandmother. There were some Visigoths again, though.) On and off I thought about going to the bar, but I suspected very strongly that I'd drink and I don't want to, so though it's antisocial of me, pffffftttt. I'll stay home.

I'm very hungry though. It doesn't help so much with the balance of my life if I substitute lemon pie with mounds of whipped sour cream topping for those two rum and cokes. It's actually not pie I want, though. I'm not sure what it is. Nameless craving #217,004.

Sigh.

Maybe I'll go rent The Bourne Identity and ogle some chocolate bars.


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