it was one of those freak days where i have absolutely nothing terribly important to do -- which, in and of itself is not very odd -- and no one to be accountable to. i was completely thrilled that by 2:00 in morning i had un-interuptedly read 700 pages of a big fat cyberthriller that i've had my eyes of for two years -- from hardback to big softback to little softback, if time were measured in publishing-years. for the first time in two years i found an entire day to laze around in bed in boxers sipping my favorite local tea.
books can be so much more *lucid* than life. reality seems not much more than a miasma of mangled impressions and ironies. a book is a carefully manicured, deftly woven timeline wherein all the crap can be cut lose to illuminate and impart some actual meaning out of mess.
which is something i wish i could do on my own right now.
needless to say i didn't eat yesterday. but even for several days now -- i'm on some semi-conscious-of self-mutilating anorexia binge during which i firmly believe that all edibles are really gross and look too heavy for my poor body to support inside of it. it's my tummy's way of playing with sharp knives so that my hands can be free to make tea and smoke cigarettes.
i don't often trust people who throw the word "love" around a lot. it's like people in unfashionable suits who yell about god on street corners trying to hand out pamphlets. i don't trust them. i don't want them to see me seeing them. i'll take to the other side of the street, thank you.
m didn't take long to distract herself. i didn't think she would.
i'm glad she's opening her heart to the rest of the world and i. i don't have to point out as to why i'm about to close mine. if i've been unconsciously laying a little isaac-and-abraham trap for her, it doesn't matter now that she's in it, thinking that it's rather hip and pretty inside.
i'm looking at this in hindsight, now, and sounding pretty snide about it. actually, it's an icky mixture of hurt and relief, regret, shame, sadness and i-told-you-so.