bleh. internal organ shedding lining in spasmodic contractions. for a brief while earlier today, my stomach did not hurt. i cherish the memory.
good news - with the wonderful moisturizer i've bought, i can now lie on top of the heater for recklessly long periods of time and then neatly silence the protests of my skin with a glob of lotion. yay!
i want chocolate. i feel foolish, as there are two entire boxes of semi-melting ice cream sandwiches in my little freezer. they are there only temporarily, but because i'm keeping them for someone i'm allowed to eat of them freely for as long as they are there. and yet i have no taste for them. ice cream sandwiches would be vastly improved by the removal of the "sandwich" component - it takes away from the purity of the ice cream, which is of course the *essence* of the ice cream sandwich. those flat brown sandwichy things are i think billed as some manner of chocolate wafer or cracker or something, but they don't taste like chocolate and completely overpower the taste of the ice cream. i try to eat them first and save the ice cream for last, but i eat so slowly that this technique is very messy. not that i mind... but those who would shape me into an acceptable human being have frowned mightily upon it. as i enter a stage in which mighty frowns are capable of having a far greater impact on my life than before, i am forced to either degrade the ice cream by consuming it simultaneously with the non-chocolate-tasting wafers (two of them - one on top and bottom - surrounding and subduing the ice cream taste entirely!) or else eat ice cream sandwiches not at all. i have compromised by adopting the merely borderline practice of eating one of the non-chocolate-tasting wafers first, leaving its fellow to support the ice cream and prevent a mess as i eat the remainder. even this still draws some negative attention, though, and some people (i've observed) are honestly offended by the sight of cheap, naked vanilla ice cream. we live in such a repressive society...
which is really a long-winded way of saying that despite the abundance of ice cream sandwiches nestled appealingly within my freezer, i really only want the 'big kat' candy bar that i dream of and can only hope is really and truly there, down in the tunnels, two floors down, halfway across the residential area and available to me for the price of 75 cents. such a cruel, cruel world that a bird in the hand is not worth two in the bush, and that i should spurn the open invitation of the ice cream sandwiches and have eyes only for the distant and haughty kit kat bar. so visible but so unattainable behind that glass panel... dammit that the true chocolate should require money. fricking harlot chocolate. it used to go for 50 cents.
speaking of which - ever noticed that some vending machines have scatterings of chips in that dark drawer you reach into to retrieve your purchase? how does that happen? the only way i can imagine is that bags of chips somehow manage to get caught upon the metal spirals every now and then and are impaled with the turning of the screw. has anybody witnessed such a thing? it sounds exciting, because you've *got* to be able to see it coming... the bag is caught, the bag is pulled taut, it bulges with all the air captured inside it, and then -POP- it explodes like a pinata or a balloon and all the chips come raining down like confetti and some poor sap is deprived of both his snack and his small change. a show for all!
the skin of my stomach is no longer red but seems to still be slowly releasing heat. bah. even with the lotion that whole lying-on-the-heater thing is probably a bad idea. why do dreadfully bad for you things so often feel so good?
missed seeing the play nine tonight. sold out. *sigh* but am enjoying the damaged afterglow of my stomach (which is still wrenchingly acheful inside, btw, but subdued by the power of prolonged direct heater exposure). i should do work tonight, but it doesn't matter because i feel bad and thus all obligations are off. i give myself free rein to sit here and chatter aimlessly about disturbingly anthropormorphicized (and oddly feminized) food items while i attempt to forget that i feel rather crappy. kuh-rap-eeee.
everything comes together for me, it seems - i'm really lucky, because oftentimes regardless of whether i really know what i'm doing, the stuff i need - work, places to live, extensions, resources, etc - just seem to fall into my lap. it scares me sometimes, because i hope i'm learning everything i need to learn. i hope i don't take this stuff too much for granted, because i can see how my come-uppance may stop in to visit me someday and beat me up and leave me weeping and short a couple teeth. i do not want to get socked in the face repeatedly by my come-uppance. the worst part is that i would deserve it like a character in a story book for relying on my good fortune and allowing myself to grow soft and never dreaming that the rug might someday be pulled out from under me and that i must endeavor to keep on my toes.
it makes me sad that the word "cocky" has become nigh-un-useable in everyday conversation because of its stupid and fairly incidental connection with the slang term "cock." a perfectly good word, now relegated to use in only the cheapest of innuendo. pisses me off, people.
i am stressed out. i have a lot to do.
i think i'm going to go get my philosophy book and start reading. i'll probably start feeling less stressed the closer i get to actually getting something accomplished. and i think i'm going to give in and buy that infernal 'big kat.' i actually have three quarters in my pocket at this very moment. each one is change left over from a recent candy bar-buying transaction. i cannot become a habitual candy bar user, a perpetual patron of the vending machines. gah - they used to cost only 50 cents! i am embittered to know that someday this fond memory shall become a thing to betray my age, and little children will disbelieve me. we'll all probably have to pay seven dolars to get a candy bar by then. grr. and you can still buy candy bars from the supermarket for as little as 33 cents each, but whenever i do they they never last for more than a few hours after. the sellers of candy, they've got my number. damn them.
good news - with the wonderful moisturizer i've bought, i can now lie on top of the heater for recklessly long periods of time and then neatly silence the protests of my skin with a glob of lotion. yay!
i want chocolate. i feel foolish, as there are two entire boxes of semi-melting ice cream sandwiches in my little freezer. they are there only temporarily, but because i'm keeping them for someone i'm allowed to eat of them freely for as long as they are there. and yet i have no taste for them. ice cream sandwiches would be vastly improved by the removal of the "sandwich" component - it takes away from the purity of the ice cream, which is of course the *essence* of the ice cream sandwich. those flat brown sandwichy things are i think billed as some manner of chocolate wafer or cracker or something, but they don't taste like chocolate and completely overpower the taste of the ice cream. i try to eat them first and save the ice cream for last, but i eat so slowly that this technique is very messy. not that i mind... but those who would shape me into an acceptable human being have frowned mightily upon it. as i enter a stage in which mighty frowns are capable of having a far greater impact on my life than before, i am forced to either degrade the ice cream by consuming it simultaneously with the non-chocolate-tasting wafers (two of them - one on top and bottom - surrounding and subduing the ice cream taste entirely!) or else eat ice cream sandwiches not at all. i have compromised by adopting the merely borderline practice of eating one of the non-chocolate-tasting wafers first, leaving its fellow to support the ice cream and prevent a mess as i eat the remainder. even this still draws some negative attention, though, and some people (i've observed) are honestly offended by the sight of cheap, naked vanilla ice cream. we live in such a repressive society...
which is really a long-winded way of saying that despite the abundance of ice cream sandwiches nestled appealingly within my freezer, i really only want the 'big kat' candy bar that i dream of and can only hope is really and truly there, down in the tunnels, two floors down, halfway across the residential area and available to me for the price of 75 cents. such a cruel, cruel world that a bird in the hand is not worth two in the bush, and that i should spurn the open invitation of the ice cream sandwiches and have eyes only for the distant and haughty kit kat bar. so visible but so unattainable behind that glass panel... dammit that the true chocolate should require money. fricking harlot chocolate. it used to go for 50 cents.
speaking of which - ever noticed that some vending machines have scatterings of chips in that dark drawer you reach into to retrieve your purchase? how does that happen? the only way i can imagine is that bags of chips somehow manage to get caught upon the metal spirals every now and then and are impaled with the turning of the screw. has anybody witnessed such a thing? it sounds exciting, because you've *got* to be able to see it coming... the bag is caught, the bag is pulled taut, it bulges with all the air captured inside it, and then -POP- it explodes like a pinata or a balloon and all the chips come raining down like confetti and some poor sap is deprived of both his snack and his small change. a show for all!
the skin of my stomach is no longer red but seems to still be slowly releasing heat. bah. even with the lotion that whole lying-on-the-heater thing is probably a bad idea. why do dreadfully bad for you things so often feel so good?
missed seeing the play nine tonight. sold out. *sigh* but am enjoying the damaged afterglow of my stomach (which is still wrenchingly acheful inside, btw, but subdued by the power of prolonged direct heater exposure). i should do work tonight, but it doesn't matter because i feel bad and thus all obligations are off. i give myself free rein to sit here and chatter aimlessly about disturbingly anthropormorphicized (and oddly feminized) food items while i attempt to forget that i feel rather crappy. kuh-rap-eeee.
everything comes together for me, it seems - i'm really lucky, because oftentimes regardless of whether i really know what i'm doing, the stuff i need - work, places to live, extensions, resources, etc - just seem to fall into my lap. it scares me sometimes, because i hope i'm learning everything i need to learn. i hope i don't take this stuff too much for granted, because i can see how my come-uppance may stop in to visit me someday and beat me up and leave me weeping and short a couple teeth. i do not want to get socked in the face repeatedly by my come-uppance. the worst part is that i would deserve it like a character in a story book for relying on my good fortune and allowing myself to grow soft and never dreaming that the rug might someday be pulled out from under me and that i must endeavor to keep on my toes.
it makes me sad that the word "cocky" has become nigh-un-useable in everyday conversation because of its stupid and fairly incidental connection with the slang term "cock." a perfectly good word, now relegated to use in only the cheapest of innuendo. pisses me off, people.
i am stressed out. i have a lot to do.
i think i'm going to go get my philosophy book and start reading. i'll probably start feeling less stressed the closer i get to actually getting something accomplished. and i think i'm going to give in and buy that infernal 'big kat.' i actually have three quarters in my pocket at this very moment. each one is change left over from a recent candy bar-buying transaction. i cannot become a habitual candy bar user, a perpetual patron of the vending machines. gah - they used to cost only 50 cents! i am embittered to know that someday this fond memory shall become a thing to betray my age, and little children will disbelieve me. we'll all probably have to pay seven dolars to get a candy bar by then. grr. and you can still buy candy bars from the supermarket for as little as 33 cents each, but whenever i do they they never last for more than a few hours after. the sellers of candy, they've got my number. damn them.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
As for being the mark, I'm sure no one does like being it.
I asked about how you talk, because the way you write sounds like the way I think. Your writing has an odd sort of disjointed quality, but still retains a flow of thought. And as you said, how we think tends to be the way we speak. I tend to be a little non sequitur sometimes. It makes me feel like less of a freak to know that other people in the world are weird too. (Not that I am calling you weird. I mean you are, but in the good way not the bad way.)
And don't ever feel bad about leaving long comments in my journal. It gives me something to read at work. Which is always good.
Hope you feel better.