I'm not happy with the fabulous prose stylings of Anna S. right now. This isn't a bid for sympathy or backrubs or anything--I'm just saying. I'm in a mood. I read a great story tonight, Clearance by Treacle Antlers. And it was just so smooth and direct and yet so funny and smart that I came away feeling gloomy about my own tangled sentences and sudden bursts of purple thistle and all that jazz. And it fucking *nails* the Spike voice. Bitch. (I snarl that with total respect to whoever T.A. is.)
Didn't drink Friday, but bought terrible wine on Saturday--or, wait, Sunday? Yeah, Sunday. Some kind of Pinot Grigio, but tasting of ass. Which is good, because I won't mind throwing it out after two glasses. Drinking is re-escalating in frequency, in a gradual way that I'm noticing from the corner of my jaundiced eye. I'm thinking of going to the liquor store tonight.
Along with the wine, bought a trashy piece of cake, the kind you find in supermarket delis--some kind of "praline" frosted thing, not stale, but vaguely unfresh in the way that such treats are. Also bought the saltiest potato chips ever. Wolfed praline in the car, in the supe parking lot--imagined myself being caught in a glare of headlights like a feral animal, praline smeared across my face. Came home, had some chips and wine. Felt...not quite digust, but some other almost similar emotion stirred by chip, frosting, and wine consumption. I'm sure you can relate, dear reader.
Went to the gym tonight, which is the only place I ever weigh myself. Have not lost any more weight, and may have gained back a few ounces, though if I concentrate and squeeze my eyes real hard, I can convince myself it's, say, water bloat. Or slightly heavier jeans.
Then there's work...
Oh, fuck it.
My life is lame.