Friday, June 3, 2016


It's me! The girl who's still icing her butt with frozen peas after all these years. Yes, the same bag of peas. Yes, I will eventually eat said peas. Said peas. "You have a nice butt," said peas. Yes. Yes, I do.

Except I don't. I would like my butt to be slightly bigger. Just... Healthy looking. Except warning! "Healthy" is a dangerous word to use around a person with an eating disorder. That makes perfect sense, right? Wrong. Absolutely nothing about eating disorders makes perfect sense. But I'd rather not get into a lengthy rambling about eating disorders, you know? Not right now. I'm too hot from my morning walk and too cold from my morning pea pack and too tired from too many stimulants. See! More things that don't make sense! Nothing makes sense except for the fact that nothing makes sense. That makes sense. Does it?

I would rather be reading right now than writing -- and this is the case almost 100% of the time. It hasn't always been like this. Maybe with reading I am able to give up control. And for someone like me who always feels the need to be in control, giving it up is equivalent to my soul chillin' in a hammock with a piña colada. Also, the fact that I wrote "my soul chillin' in a hammock with a piña colada" might be another reason I don't write so much these days.

I am envious of those who do write regularly, though. I write in this blog fairly regularly, but I'm talking about those of you scribes out there who are feverishly working on novels, dedicated to your screenplays, perfecting your poems. Who are you and how do you do it? Where does your motivation come from? Is it a desperate act of survival? I want your dedication. I want your drive. I want your desire. Yes, I desire desire.

I do have desires, though. I am glad I have desires. (Shut up right now, Buddha.) I desire to be outside. I desire to read. I desire to connect, occasionally, with brilliant minds off of the page and in this thing we call "real life." So I guess that means I'm destined to a life under a tree with a book whose pages are the carcasses of the tree's family members? Essentially that means I'm destined to be homeless. Or so incredibly wealthy that I no longer have to work. OR it might mean that I have to find some kind of career that blends the outdoors with a shit ton of books. There has to be some kind of bookstore without walls, right? Where people come to a secluded and foggy corner of the forest to browse magical tomes full of insights and incantations. Or maybe I should just drive a damn bookmobile.

Well, thus concludes another post. I never know how to end these damn things. Damn! Damn! Damn! My one swearword that I use frequently, no matter who's in my company. I do not even consider it a naughty word. I consider no words naughty except for TRUMP, am I right, folks? Topical. So I guess ending on Trump is always a good place to end. The end.

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